


the past is prologue

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anxiety, But it also isn't, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It is Javert and Valjean, It won't take you long to work it out, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2019-09-07 12:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 41,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16853845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: He wishes he remembered anything other than the water and the falling. Even a name, a single name, would be enough to begin, to try and find himself somewhere in the pages of history, but there is nothing.Reliver (noun, slang): A person who suffers from a disorder whereby they relive a life over and over again. Cause of the disorder unknown, but many believe the Reliver made a mistake that must be fixed before they can rest.





	1. Book One: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this for a long time. A long time. So long that I can't even remember when I started it. It is finished in full now, and I am very excited to start sharing it :)

_June 1967_

She awoke to the sound of screaming — although in her line of work, that was not such an unusual thing as most people might think.

Kate lay still, holding her breath, and only when the scream came again did she sigh and roll out of bed. She’d have to go and quiet down whichever of her charges it was, or she’d have the lot of them awake and wailing at this godforsaken hour.

She checked first on the girls, sleeping a floor below her, but none of them had stirred and she closed the door with satisfaction. So rarely did any of the girls trouble her that she even found herself thinking of them sometimes with affection, when she had the time to do so. She could not linger here though; now that she was a floor lower, she could hear that the screams had turned to sobs, low but persistent and coming, of course, from the boys’ dormitory.

By all rights, she thought, Frank should be up and dealing with the boys at night, but he had always slept as though it would take nothing short of a hurricane to wake him, and she could hear his snores now as she stopped outside of his room. A part of her wanted to raise her fist and pound on the door, drag him out of the bed and force him to do his bloody job, but she didn’t. He’d only make a fuss about it, and this way she could threaten to drop him in it when the management came round to check on the home. She’d get a lot more out of blackmailing him. It was about all he was good for.

Instead, she turned to the boys’ dormitory and slipped in the half open door. 

The room was dark and mostly quiet; they only had three boys currently. One was so small he still had a cot by the door, and he was sleeping soundly still, oblivious to the noise. Kate stepped further in, careful in the dark, towards the two occupied beds, and found both the boys awake. The older, Mark, gazed at her with wide eyes, the sliver of moonlight from the window on his face, as she took in the younger, who was curled on his side, crying. He was undoubtedly the cause of the all the noise.

“Lay back down,” she said to Mark, her voice rough with sleep. “I’m here now.”

He closed his eyes obediently, and she turned to his companion. Jairus had not noticed her arrival; he flinched when she put a hand on his skinny shoulder and turned him over. He looked up at her piteously, and seemed like he was about to reach out his arms, before he remembered where he was, and he rubbed instead at his eyes, trying to dry his tears.

“What happened?” Kate asked, drawing back his blankets with one hand and switching on the bed light with the other. He was soaking wet. Perfect. Just what she needed at this time of night.

“I had a bad dream,” the boy said, in that odd bastard accent of his. “I’m sorry, Miss.”

“It’s all right,” Kate said. “Move. Let me strip the bed.”

Jairus stumbled to his feet and stood beside her, shifting from one foot to another as he watched her work. He was tall for five years old, and his pyjamas that had been new only two months ago were already far too short in the arms and the legs. She tut-tutted at the sight — another thing Frank had failed to mention needed tending to — and the boy trembled as though she was going to scold him. 

“Come along,” she said instead, and swept his bedding into her arms.

He followed silently in her footsteps as she guided him to the washing room, dumping the sheets in a basket and turning to rifle through the cupboard. Still, he only watched her silently, his dark eyes fixed on her every move. He was always watching, this one. Kate knew the type; she’d seen it before, of course. A child never quite sure of how the adults around them will act, at any given moment.

“Here,” Kate pulled an old but clean pair of pyjamas from the cupboard and handed them to Jairus. He took them but did not move, and she sighed.

“Take off your wet ones and leave them here.”

She expected him, with the uninhibited nature of most small children, to change there and then, but Jairus bit his lip.

“Can I go to the toilet, Miss?”

He was already cringing, as though he expected to be struck.

“Yes, you can.” Kate did not often have the time to think much of the comfort of the children, but she found herself taking a step back, as though to reassure the boy he was safe.

“Thank you, Miss.”

He all but ran from the room, pyjamas in hand, and Kate shook her head as she took down clean sheets and went back to the dormitory. Jairus was certainly one of the odder children she had in her care, or had probably ever had, if she was honest. He’d appeared at the home early one morning with a social worker who seemed pleased to get the boy off his hands.

“Reckon he’s got gypsy in him,” the man told her, under his breath. “Abandoned. They found him digging in a bin behind a restaurant. If he knows where he came from, he hasn’t said.”

They’d watched Jairus hover by the breakfast table, staring at the food but unwilling to touch even when she told him that he could. In the end, she had pushed him into a chair and put a piece of toast in his hands. She couldn’t be doing with indecision. 

“Oh and another thing,” the social worker had remembered as he went to leave. “He says weird things. If I didn’t know better, the little bastard is probably a Reliver.”

The social worker had been right about that, or so Kate thought. She went back to the dormitory and began to make the bed. Jairus wasn’t the first Reliver she had ever met, although he was the youngest, and God above knew he was strange enough to be one. In the greater scheme of things, it did not matter to her if the boy was a Reliver or not; it was no skin off her nose. He wouldn’t be at the home long enough for it to be important and besides, she was here to meet physical needs, not spiritual ones.

Jairus returned just as she was shaking out the blankets. His fresh pyjamas were too big and he had to hold the trousers up, but at least he was clean.

“In you get then.”

He did as he was told, and Kate would have left without a word if he had not suddenly spoken.

“Miss?” 

“Yes?” 

“I dreamed I was a grownup.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, and I was hurt and I was all by myself but no one came.”

“Well, it’s over now. It wasn’t real.”

He stared up at her expectantly as though he was waiting for her to say more, and when she didn’t, his thin face hardened a little and he turned on his side, away from her.

Kate switched off the light and walked away, already looking forward to her own bed for at least a few more hours. She had been short with the boy, that was true, but it did not do to allow them to be too dependent. In the end, they all had to learn. 

And besides, if he was a Reliver, he’d get used to the dreams pretty quickly. He’d have to.


	2. Book One: Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for descriptions of wounds in this chapter

_London 2012._

A small flat in Tufnell Park, not much more than a room with a bed and a table and a bookshelf; a kitchen; and a bathroom big enough for an actual bath. It is enough for him, this flat. Jai can remember the rooms that have come before, places he has lived in his past lives, and none of them had a kitchen he could call his own, let alone a bath. 

That being said, he is not sure which life he remembers anymore. When he was younger, the ones he could recall had stark differences; smells and tastes and noises that he knew belonged to one life or another. There have been three, he thinks, since the original one — that first life he is Reliving over and over again. Three that used to be distinct, when he was young and his mind was more flexible. Now, it is only the flash of the most recent, the Berlin soldier, that has any resonance for him.

The Berlin boy was a strong street rat, born to a mother who would soon be dragged, biting and screaming, to a prison on the edge of Berlin. Her son, four years old and already ashamed of her and himself, ran away from the prison transport and made a life on the streets of that cold and harsh city. He fell in with the police, ran messages for coins, and watched. He watched and he learned, until the day he was handed a uniform and made an officer of the law. 

Jai remembers, even now, that the Berlin boy knew as well as he does now that he was a Reliver, because he always watched for the mistake he was supposed to correct. He searched his whole life for it.

But he never did find it, because when the Berlin boy was thirty-five, Germany marched to war. He swapped his police uniform for a soldier’s, his handcuffs for a gun. He cut his long hair short and he learned to live on food he would have once shunned as that little boy on the streets. 

He fought well, bravely even, and on the day he died he was a lieutenant with men at his command. He was shot in the stomach on a foray into no man’s land and bled his life into the dirt for hours before he succumbed, curled on his side in a shell hole. He called to his comrades, but he was too far away, too far and no one dared to come for him, and although he tried his hardest, by the end of his life he was sobbing.

It is this nightmare that wakes Jai sometimes, the taste of blood in his mouth, the stench of mud and shit, a pain throbbing within him and tears upon his face. 

He wakes, gasping, drenched in sweat that feels like blood, and for a moment he swears that he can feel the wound, pulsing and open, fresh. He has to touch his stomach to prove to himself that it is not there, that only the smooth, purple skin of his birthmark is any proof at all that he had once suffered so great an intrusion there. 

It is always like this, the first waking seconds after the dreams. He does not know who he is or where he is or when he is. So much of his mind is shaped by the things of his past. The bullet is a memory that has strength, the trauma of the end of that life so recent for him in comparison to the others he has lived that it is no wonder his mind chooses to relive it. 

A police psychologist once asked him how he could be describing the symptoms of PTSD when nothing in his records suggested a reason to suffer from it. What had happened to him that he hadn’t told her, for surely there was something? The woman had been kind with her probing, wanting only to help him, but he had been so short and rude that even he, emotionally stunted, could recognise the fault after the fact. He had apologised to her the next time he was forced into her office.

In the end it had not mattered. The woman had signed him off anyway after a few weeks, and Jai knew that she had worked out the answer to her own question. People who were Reliving, over and over, were feared, but they also were not as rare as the statistics might suggest. Jai is sure he knows of several more at the station, officers who have the look – the dark circles under the eyes, the same dullness within that Jai can see in himself whenever he dares to look in the mirror. It is a poison, boiling below the surface. You only live a life over again if you have done something so terribly wrong: something that time, or the universe, needs to fix. People used to say that the part of you that made that mistake, that was capable of such a horror, lived on in you. That’s why they were afraid of it. That’s why it was such a terrible thing to be a Reliver at all — that mistake, whatever it might have been.

Jai pulls himself up to rest against the wall, the chill seeping into his back and into his bones. The hazy light of dawn creeps into the room as London comes to lazy life and Jai breathes slowly, calms his racing heart and settles his mind to the here and now. The dreams have become more frequent of late, and powerful enough to shake him. He wakes most often with the bullet in his gut, but there is also another, newer dream, one he has never had before, and one that is even more disturbing.

The falling. 

The helplessness of being on the edge and then, too late, the falling.

With this dream, he wakes as ice fills his lungs and he cannot breathe. It is harder to settle after this dream, and he has begun to suspect that it goes deeper, that finally after three lives lived and another in progress, the falling was the end of the life that he is Reliving. The life in which the mistake was made. The mistake he must resolve, or else he will be trapped with the memories for another lifetime and another and another.

He wishes he remembered anything other than the water and the falling. Even a name, a single name, would be enough to begin, to try and find himself somewhere in the pages of history, but there is nothing. Jai never feels as though his name belongs to him, but the anonymous accounts he has found on the internet, words of other Relivers, all mention the same thing. It is a symptom of the problem — Relivers do not feel at home in their own skins, their own lives. 

As he tilts his head back and listens to the rain begin to hit the window, Jai wonders how much further his mind will stretch before it finally breaks.


	3. Book One: Chapter Two

London 2012. July.

The city is on edge, breathless. In a few days, the eyes of the world will turn on it for the Olympic Games. The newspapers have gleefully peddled their rubbish, blowing concerns about the Village and the security and the weather entirely out of proportion, and people are concerned. It is a curious trait of the British, the determined feigning of indifference underlined with a desperate anxiety to please. Jai thinks it has something to do with empires and the old loyalties. He has not time for thoughts like that and even less time for his fellow countrymen. It is an abstract part of his identity, no more to him than the name that he knows is not his.

Besides, if the newspapers really knew what was happening behind the scenes, the plots against the city and the games that the police have already foiled, they really would have something to be worried about. Of course, if the authorities do their jobs properly, the papers and the people will never know.

Jai leaves the flat in the drizzling rain, baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. He has never felt complete without a hat on his head and wonders, when he has the strength to wonder, what it means. He is headed to the park in Stratford, to the base that he will be working from for the duration of the games. He’ll be in plain clothes, mingling in the crowds, just another spectator save for the gun strapped to his ankle. With any luck, he won’t have to use it.

The Northern Line may as well be the seventh circle of hell for all the comfort it offers first thing in the morning. He used to ride a bike to work until the day a speeding driver knocked him flying. The doctor in the casualty said he was lucky to be alive, that his helmet had undoubtedly saved him. That night he had dreamed of Dietrich, of the comrade he had watched die when a shot went through his helmet and of how the man’s brains had showered him, and he woke with the resolve that his cycling days were over. He wouldn’t trust a helmet to save him twice.

Jai crams himself into a corner of the end carriage and lowers his head, peering at his fellow passengers from under his cap. Some of them he recognises, the usual 7.15 crowd, but he is always amazed by the sheer number of new faces every day. London is a city of transience, never the same any two days in a row, and it makes Jai twitchy. A good policeman, he thinks, should know his beat, know his streets, and the people on them. Malachy tells him that he should have been born a hundred years ago. If Jai had a sense of humour, he would laugh at the irony.

The Northern Line to Bank, then a switch to the Circle Line towards Stratford. It is no less busy than the Northern Line, but at Liverpool Street, he begins to see faces he knows, his fellow officers, and at Bethnal Green, Malachy appears at his side.

“Morning, old man,” Malachy grins, shoving a coffee into Jai’s hand. “Looks like the weather men might be right after all, eh?”

Old man. Malachy has called him that for almost as long as they have worked together. Jai is older than him by at least a decade, but it does not come from that fact alone. In that knowing way of his, Malachy says that he has an old soul. Jai has never told him that he is a Reliver, but Malachy is not as stupid as he looks and Jai knows that he has worked it out for himself.

“Morning, junior,” he mumbles in reply, “You sound like the bloody Daily Mail when you talk like that.”

“All right, sarge, just making conversation. Excuse me for breathing.”

There is humour in his voice, despite the words, and Jai leans against the wall to sip at his coffee. He has never had a friend before Malachy, at least not in this life, and although the man was an irritation to begin with, Jai has come to do more than tolerate him. He likes him, despite the nicknames and the constant chatter, and the only conclusion he can draw is that Malachy likes him too. Surely he wouldn’t have stuck around so long if he didn’t.

They stand in silence for the two more stops to Stratford, and spill out onto the platform along with a large crowd of police officers, Games Makers, and other people pulled into the circus. Jai has watched the athletes and their entourages arriving for days and days now, and he wishes the bloody thing would just hurry up. Tomorrow, finally, some of the events will begin their preliminary rounds, and two days after that will be the Opening Ceremony.

They join the crowd heading towards the park and Malachy breaks his self-imposed silence.

“Reckon Stratford has never seen anything like it.”

He has said this several times before, and Jai reminds him of that.

“I know,” Malachy shrugs. “Don’t make it less true.”

Their base is near the entrance to the park, looking for all the world like just another of the portacabins that house the volunteer stations. Inside though is a hive of activity; a few desks crammed together in the middle have a large circle of officers, all in plain clothes, milling about and chatting. Jai removes his hat and runs a hand over his hair, tied back in his usual ponytail. That is another impulse he nurses; when he enters a building, the hat has to come off.

Today, they will be receiving their shift patterns for the duration of the games. They’ll swap out times, venues and partners so that anyone watching for them doesn’t learn the routine. Jai is not surprised to find, when his timetable is handed to him, that for the sake of everyone else, whoever planned it has foregone a little bit of protocol and paired him with Malachy as much as possible. When he isn’t with him, Jai is on his own. He doesn’t care. He prefers it that way.

The usual chatter and safety reminders last until lunch, when they are finally released to go and familiarise themselves with the venues and the rest of the park. Report back at 3pm for issue of keys to arms lockers and any questions. Jai hates questions.

He marches outside, Malachy on his heels, and only stops when he reaches the first van set up to serve decent coffee. 

“Large black coffee. And a large latte. Please.”

“Anything to eat, love?” the woman chirps, and he is about to refuse when his stomach rumbles and Malachy appears at his side once more.

“Yes,” Malachy says, speaking around the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, “What’s good?”

“Do you a couple of burgers, love, if you’re willing to wait?”

“Great. He’s paying.”

“Give me five minutes,” the woman hands Jai the coffees, “I’ll give you a shout.”

Malachy grabs his cup and retreats to the picnic benches resting on a little patch of green across the way. Jai sits down next to him and takes the pack of cigarettes from Malachy’s pocket, lighting up. He doesn’t actually enjoy smoking that much, but Dietrich smoked like any soldier of his time, and when Jai was feeling stressed, it was still a comfort to fall back on that old habit even though it wasn’t his to fall back on. They smoke in silence for a while, until Malachy sits up and flicks his hand.

“What’s up with you today? You’re bad, even for you.”

“Piss off,” Jai says, because he can’t say anything else. He can hardly tell Malachy the truth, that he is so tired of the weight pressing him down, the dreams and the nightmares and the deaths and the feeling, always the feeling, that something is missing. 

“All right,” Malachy’s voice is easy, and Jai feels a twinge of guilt. He doesn’t know how his friend puts up with him, because he surely wouldn’t hang around with anyone who treated him like he treats the kid. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “Just tired.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Jai,” Malachy yawns, rolling to his feet as the woman calls to them, burgers in her hands. “Just so you know, you can talk to me. If you want.”

He watches Malachy go over to the woman and starts to chat with her. Jai smokes his cigarette down and grinds it into the table top, flicking the butt into the bin. 

That’s when it happens — a slow prickling that begins at the base of his spine and creeps up his back until his face feels like it is on fire and he can hardly breathe. 

He stumbles to his feet, propping himself up with the table, and tries to go over to Malachy, tries to call out. He can’t breathe and his heart is racing and as soon as he moves he knows he’s made a mistake because his legs won’t hold him. He sinks to his knees in the middle of the path, in front of a group of young athletes who part and walk around him, shooting furtive glances at him. He hears someone — Malachy? — call his name and then a hand is on his shoulder and it is burning him.

He looks up. A man is touching him and he is burning.

“Monsieur? Are you well?”

Jai can only gasp and then the man is moved along gently by Malachy and Jai is trembling, the heat ebbing away as the man gets further from him and when he is out of sight, his racing heart eases and he can breathe again.

“Jai? Jai, you okay, man? Speak to me, Jai.”

He cannot. He cannot speak. 

The man. 

_It is him._


	4. Book One: Chapter Three

“Jai? Speak to me, man!”

Someone is shaking him and as his head clears enough to hear, he can feel all the eyes on him, from people who seem to have appeared out of nowhere. They always do, at times like these. Thankfully, Malachy is used to moving them along. As Jai climbs to his feet, legs shaking, his friend clears the people away, until only the two of them and the burger van woman remain.

“Here, love,” the woman says, and Malachy goes to her. He comes back to Jai’s side with a cup of tea, milky and no doubt full of sugar. Jai takes it, not least because holding it will give his shaking hands an anchor.

Silence, then Malachy sits beside him.

“You okay, man?”

Jai nods. If he opens his mouth, he will vomit. That man. Of all the places in all the world, he has found him here. The mistake that he needs to fix. It is something to do with that man, and now he knows that, there is an itch in the back of his mind and he can almost remember a name. Not quite, but it is there, where before there has only been darkness.

“Jai,” Malachy is clutching his own cup of tea, his face pale beneath his red hair. “I know about you. I figured it out a while ago.”

Jai feels his stomach flip and this time he cannot stop it. He stumbles away from the bench and throws up in the bin. Malachy is at his side in an instant, hand resting on his back, and for once Jai does not flinch away from the touch.

“It’s all right,” Malachy mutters. “Get it all up.”

He is so calm, when usually Jai is the one to temper the kid’s moods, and so very gentle that Jai almost cannot bear it. Malachy has no idea what he is getting himself into.

Eventually, Jai straightens up and wipes his mouth. The taste is bitter, but the tea will help to wash that away, and it is no more bitter than what he must do now.

“If you know about me, you should just go,” he says, voice low. “Leave me alone, Malachy.”  
He does not expect the answer.

“Piss off, Jai.”

“I’m your senior officer, Sergeant,” he says, playing the card that he has never pulled out with Malachy. “Watch your mouth.”

He tries to sound like he means it, but his head is buzzing and Malachy apparently knows him better than he ever thought. Malachy rolls his eyes and pulls him over to the bench, shoving the cup of tea back into his hands.

“You think you’re the first Reliver I’ve ever met?” Malachy asks. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Jai glances around to see who is listening, but only the burger van woman is there, and her back is turned as she puts their burgers into boxes. Jai waits until she comes over, patting his shoulder sympathetically. He grits his teeth and thanks her. He cannot look at the food, but Malachy picks up his burger and tears into it.

“Who was it?” Jai asks eventually, when it becomes clear that Malachy is waiting for him to speak. “The – other one.”

“My old man,” Malachy speaks around his mouthful. “He was never ashamed of it, you know. Just came out and told me one day. Mum knew too. Hard not to, with the nightmares.”

“How did you know about me? Is it that obvious?”

“Nah,” Malachy swallows his last mouthful and cracks open Jai’s burger. He gestures towards the box. “You don’t want this, right?”

Jai shook his head and sipped at his tea. Malachy made a start on the burger and shrugged, talking with his mouth full.

“I know 'cause you’ve got that look, like you’ve never slept a good night in your whole life,” he continued. “Dad was like that. And you’re twitchy. And I see you, watching people like you’re looking for something.”

“I am a police officer.”

“Not the same kind of looking.”

Malachy speaks so plainly that there is only one thing that Jai can ask him.

“Did he – your father … did he find it?”

“Died when I was sixteen,” Malachy shakes his head. “Far as I know, he never did. He’s out there somewhere, some kid just getting old enough to know what’s going on, starting to look all over again.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words are unfamiliar on Jai’s lips, but he means them. He can say them now because – oh God – because he’s found his someone. The sickness crashes over him again and he looks around wildly, in case the man has come back. He hasn’t, thank fuck. Jai thinks he might pass out if the man appears unannounced again. 

“Was it that man?” Malachy asks. “The older one? With those kids?”

“I think so.” Jai tries to remember that moment of confusion. 

“But did you see him? Was he acting strangely too?”

“He just looked worried,” Malachy shrugs, “not like you did. Do you – do you think he isn’t like you? Like he doesn’t even know he’s been looking?”

“I don’t know how this bloody curse works,” Jai spits. “How the hell would I know? This has never happened before.”

“Alright, Jai. Just a question.”

Malachy jumps to his feet and brushes the crumbs from his lap, going to shove the rubbish into the bin. The park has been getting busier as they have sat talking, and Malachy eyes the people with interest. He bounces back from literally anything with more grace than Jai ever remembers having. 

“Come on. Can you walk? Lunch break over?”

There are so many people and it is like a hand has taken Jai’s heart and squeezed. How will he find the man again in crowds like this?

“We’ll find him,” Malachy says, reading Jai’s mind again. “How many French coaches can be hanging around, huh? Won’t be hard to narrow them down.”

***

He does not see the man again that afternoon, but as Malachy says, there’s a good chance that he isn’t going anywhere for the duration of the Games at least. Jai is glad that they don’t find him. His head aches so much that he can barely think. By the time he gets to Tufnell Park station, he can barely see either.

He stumbles home with a bottle of whisky and a new pack of cigarettes, and makes it into the shower for a few minutes before he becomes too concerned that he might black out and smash his head open on the sink. He crawls to his bed and swallows some painkillers with a mouthful of whisky and lays still until his vision clears enough for him to sit up. He lights a cigarette, swills his mouth with more whisky and opens his laptop.

He’s read accounts of other Relivers before, the ones who talk about not feeling at home in their own skin, but he isn’t looking for those anymore. He’s looking for the ones who have got lucky and found their something. He’s never dared look at them before, never believing for a moment that he would be one of the lucky ones. 

On a private page, he opens the search engine and cracks his knuckles. He types ‘Relivers’ and ‘finding the something’. The website lists a huge number of results and he clicks on the first one, just to get it over and done with. It’s just a blog post, like all of the other ones he has read, but there is another person behind it, another person like him, and it will have to do. 

The writer is a woman, and as he forces his blurry eyes to focus on the words, the story at least is comforting in its familiarity. She is vague about the reason for her Reliving and that’s understandable; Relivers are generally intensely private. She does write about the overwhelming sickness and an ache in her body when she found her something, and how it did not really stop until there had been a resolution of sorts, until the mistake she had made had been corrected. Jai scowls and clicks back to the search engine. This pain will last until then? 

He scans the rest of the first page but does not find any results that seem to be different, and he almost slams the lid of the laptop in favour of sleeping away this headache when the last listing on the page catches his eye. 

_Finding My Something: The Greatest Relief of My Lives_

Jai clicks on the link and lights another cigarette. He expects to find some evangelical page, the sort that he has read before. These are written by the people who piss him off the most, Relivers who treat the whole thing like a fucking heavenly intervention, a lesson from a God that he’s never believed in, when really it’s just nightmares and hurt and shame. 

This is not one of those pages. 

It’s an article by a man in New Zealand, who says that he had read all of the other accounts and experienced nothing like them when his time finally came. He says that when he found his something, at first, there was nothing. No pain, none of the physical symptoms that others write about. He recalls meeting a person who turned out to be his something and seeing them collapsing in the middle of Auckland, but that he only felt sorry for them until he walked away, not knowing even that he was the reason they had collapsed. After that, it was like a lightness, as though a weight had been lifted from him — a gentle warmth that spread through him and a slow flood of memory that came to him until he knew his mistake and, when he found that person again, he could tell them the whole story. It turns out, the man wrote, that Relivers such as him were rare, even rarer than the usual type. 

It is a long story and Jai stops when he gets to the moment that the man had reunited with his something for the second time. He has never come across this other type of Reliver but perhaps – Malachy said that the man had just looked worried as he passed Jai by, not like he was in pain at all. Could it be this man is one of these rarer types? It would explain his lack of reaction.

There is a pulse, a sharp needle of pain behind that shoots behind his eyes, and Jai gives up on the research. He tosses his laptop aside and downs the rest of the whisky in one swig, falling back against the pillow. 

In the seconds before he blacks out, Jai wonders if the man is thinking of him.


	5. Book One: Chapter Four

Malachy arrives the next day in his beat-up old Peugeot, idling outside the building in a loading bay and eyeballing an irate lorry driver who’s trying to intimidate him into moving on. Jai opens the car door and falls into the passenger seat.

“Thought you might not feel up to the tube today,” Malachy chirps, handing him the usual coffee, reaching to turn down the volume of the garage shit that he likes to listen to.

“You’re not wrong,” Jai mutters, slipping on his sunglasses as Malachy eases into the traffic. It’s slow moving and will be all the way to Stratford, but at least he is sitting down. His head still hurts, held at bay by more painkillers than can possibly be good for him. He’d dreamed, after he passed out last night, dreamt once more of the water and the cold rush as his lungs filled and he could not breathe. He thinks now that it must be certain; the water does mark the end of the life that he is Reliving.

“We’re at the velodrome this morning,” Malachy says. “Reckon your guy will be there?”

“Don’t know. Those kids didn’t look much like cyclists.”

Malachy sucks his teeth. The noise goes through Jai’s head like a saw through wood.

“Well, opening ceremony tonight. He might fall into your lap.”

“I’m not that lucky.”

Malachy laughs, so deep in his chest that Jai cannot help the smile that tugs on his own lips.

“Not that lucky? The bastard practically tripped over you yesterday, and you’re sitting there telling me that you aren’t lucky?”

Jai is startled, unable to find the words to tell Malachy to piss off, and instead he finds himself laughing too. It is unfamiliar to him, laughter, like muscles he has never had much cause to stretch, but for a moment he enjoys it. Malachy is not, technically, wrong.

They have no luck in the velodrome that morning, sitting side by side watching some of the teams in their practice. There are few spectators but the two of them do not look anymore out of place than the others dotted around. Mostly, they seem to be members of other teams, dressed in the colours or wearing the lanyards that identify them, watching the competition. Jai would know if the man was here, would feel it. So he can settle for concentrating on watching the people around him, noting faces and movements.

Malachy is engrossed; having made his own cursory scan of the stalls, he has settled into watching the bikes rushing around the track. He likes sports — cricket and football especially — but Jai has no doubt that by the end of this circus, Malachy will have absorbed hundreds of new names and faces and facts. It’s a skill that serves him well; he can identify a face in a crowd that he’s only ever seen once and maybe it will be helpful here, because if anyone is going to find that man, it will be him. 

Jai isn’t scheduled to be at the opening ceremony, having been on duty most of the day, but neither has anyone said that he can’t be there. Malachy, of course, has been looking forward to it for months, the chance to be hanging around behind the scenes of what he calls the greatest show on Earth. Jai couldn’t think of anything worse and would not have stayed — that is, until the man appeared. As it is, now he wants – needs – to try everything he can to find him. And that includes attending the bloody opening ceremony.

Jai takes a long break at the table of the same burger van as yesterday, the woman only giving him a small smile when he orders another coffee and a burger. Malachy is not with him, wandered off somewhere at the end of the shift, and Jai knows it was only the kid’s easygoing nature that made the woman so affable yesterday. Today, with only Jai, eyes red-rimmed and two days worth of stubble growing around his sideburns, she is less eager to talk. He cannot blame her; he wouldn’t want to talk much to someone like him either. Here, he doesn’t even have his uniform to let people know he isn’t as terrifying as he looks.

He sits and watches as the park begins to fill, firstly with legions of excitable people wearing the lanyards of performers, all carrying backpacks and forming a long queue at the burger van, chattering enough to give Jai’s delicate head a shove back towards pounding headache. Slowly they move off, heading towards the stadium. Then come the spectators, pouring through the gates and so much worse than the performers. None of them pay much attention to Jai, other than to carefully avoid sitting with him, even though seating at the other tables is scarce. 

He shoves the remains of his second burger into his mouth and stands up, intent on finding another quiet spot for a while longer, settling finally on a bench behind one of the volunteer cabins. No one bothers him, aside from one old man in a volunteer’s polo shirt who looks at him suspiciously until Jai flashes him his ID. He can’t blame the man, any more than he can blame the burger woman or her customers. Jai knows that he looks a state, usually does, especially when he’s not in uniform. It’s not that he doesn’t have high standards — he does, but no amount of pressed shirts and fitted jeans hide the fact that he looks like bad news. He’s too tall and broad, with perpetual bags under his eyes, nicotine-stained fingers and a constant scowl on a face that is just a shade too dark for most people to feel comfortable around him. 

He tries to think about the man from yesterday, to remember anything at all, but all there is in his mind is the flash of blinding pain and then the warmth of a hand on his shoulder. Perhaps he had dark hair, or perhaps Jai is imagining it, or remembering something from a different life. In truth, he has nothing to go on save whatever his body decides to tell him, and Malachy’s assurance that although he didn’t see the man’s face, he’d remember those shoulders anywhere.

Jai sits and chain-smokes almost an entire pack of cigarettes before Malachy finds him and drags him out.

“Let’s go, old man,” he says. “We’ve got a fugitive to find.”

Something about Malachy’s words make the back of Jai’s neck itch, but he dismisses it and follows the kid into the chaos.

Quite a few of their colleagues have decided to stay for the spectacle, and most of them look surprised to see Jai threading through the crowd at Malachy’s heels. They don’t know why he is here, and for the next few hours, Jai agrees with them. It’s too busy and it’s too noisy and Jai aches so much he can hardly think. It is a relief when the athletes begin their parade and he can concentrate on them.

He finds a corner near the entrance and holes up in it. It takes a long time to get to F in the alphabet, but as they get closer to him, Jai begins to feel that tingling again, the heat rushing through him and then the French team are streaming past and he cannot take his eyes from them. There’s hundreds and he is burning and he can’t see them all but then — then the man is there and Jai knows it is him. He just knows, and the man is looking around like he can feel it too, and then their eyes meet.

Their eyes meet. Jai is shivering and he can hardly see, but the man is looking at him and he does have dark hair, and the shoulders like Malachy said, his eyes are a flash of green, but then he is gone. Borne away by the tide of people around him and behind him, and the noise comes back to Jai like a punch, until he is gasping and Malachy is there, holding tight to his arm.

“Did you see him? He was right there!”

Jai can only nod, once again, and then he needs to vomit. He shoves through the crowd, somehow finding his way to the toilets. He remembers those eyes. He doesn’t know how or where, but he has seen them before. He throws up in the sink, not even able to make the cubicle, and grips the basin so hard he cannot feel his fingers. He looks up and for the briefest of moments, he does not recognise the face in the mirror. Then it is back, his own eyes staring at him, and he sinks to the floor before he falls.

Malachy finds him like that, leaning against the wall.

“Jai,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” his voice is hardly his own, weak and hesitant. “What the fuck did I do, kid? Who the fuck was I?”

“I don’t know,” Malachy shoots back at him. “But he’s your answer and he’s out there right now. I saw him. He felt it too, whatever it is.”

“How long before they come back?”

“An hour. Maybe more.”

Jai rests his head back against the wall and tries to breathe. “Come and get me then.”

“All right.”

It is closer to two hours by the time Malachy comes back, not that Jai has noticed much time passing. He’s trapped, somewhere in his past, whenever he closes his eyes.

“Get up,” Malachy tugs him to his feet and back out into the corridor. “Eyes peeled, yeah?”

Jai is pathetically grateful that Malachy manhandles him until his back is against the wall. 

It’s harder to find someone in the crowd pouring back in, the teams all mixed up, but at least he knows what the French uniform looks like. A small group of them filter through, then ones and twos, until a large contingent appears on the corner of his vision. The heat flares up again and he tries to stand up straight. Malachy notices him twitching and he’s on his toes immediately, trying to spot the man. 

They don’t need to worry about it, in the end. One moment, Jai is looking one way, then his heart skips and the man is there, in front of him. 

The man has time to reach out his hand and say the words, “Monsieur, we need to talk,” before Jai has found his strength, pushed past him and is running once more. Away. 

_Anywhere but here._


	6. Book One: Chapter Five

Jai runs, runs like a fucking coward, until he is part of the crowd streaming toward the underground, and then he stops running. 

The man was there, _right there_ in front of him, and he was looking at him and Jai can’t think of anything except getting away as fast as he can. He can’t, he can’t, _he can’t_.

People scatter around him as he ploughs his way through them and he can’t bring himself to care. The world has narrowed, closing in around him until all he can focus on is one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, and then he is on the tube and collapsing into a seat. Sweat runs into his eyes and he removes his baseball cap to wipe at it, his hand coming away sopping wet. He scrubs his hand on his jeans and puts his cap back on, pulling it down low. There are eyes on him and he can hardly blame their owners for it; they can feel it too. They know he’s rotten on the inside.

Somehow, he makes it home and up the stairs, makes it to bed before his legs give out underneath him. He doesn’t have the strength to undress before his world goes black once more.

_He dreams and it is dark._

_There are walls around him, high walls, and if he reaches out with both arms, he can touch the walls on both sides. An alleyway. He is in an alleyway, slick with rain under his feet._

_And there is a smell. It smells like – like fire. Like gunpowder, but he does not know how he knows this._

_A scuffle behind him, a movement that he sees from the corner of his eye, a shadow that moves just slightly too quickly to see._

_Then the sound of a bullet and he is running._

_The world fades around him, reshapes, and he is on a bridge. The water below, the rush of it, he recognises. This is the water he has heard before, the water in his dreams._

_He is standing on the parapet of the bridge, looking down into the darkness and he does not want to, he does not want to fall. Not again, he finds himself thinking, not again. But there is another noise, a noise like feet running behind him and he falls anyway._

_He hits the water – he has not hit the water before and he feels the jolt in his bones – and the water is swirling around him and it fills his lungs and he tries to scream but it is too late._

_Too late._

_Too late._

_Too late._

Jai wakes with the taste of the water in his mouth and he gags, sitting up so fast that he is sick on the bedsheets that he is tangled in. He groans and vomits again, until he feels like there is nothing left inside of him. He is tired of being sick; it is as though the bile of so many lifetimes is finally finding its way out of him. 

And the dream. Jai holds his head. So much of the dream is new; the alleyway, the bullet, the bridge. It is all because of him, the man. The man that he ran from, like a coward. Jai ran. Apparently once he jumped from a bridge. Forever a coward. Born a coward then and died like one, and still a coward to this day. 

He untangles himself from the sheets and gets them, and his clothes, into the washing machine. It is early, still dark outside, but he will not sleep again. He daren’t, not now he knows what is waiting for him when he does. Until he faces this man and learns the truth, it will be there. The river.

He falls, naked, onto his bare bed and picks up his phone to read the news, anything to distract himself from the shadows. There is a message from Malachy.

_Hope you’re ok. I gave him your number. He’ll be in touch._

There are no more messages and he swears. The buzz of his phone will make him jumpy until the man gets in contact with him. It is strange to think that Malachy has spoken to him, Malachy knows his name and has probably told him Jai’s. He wonders what the man is thinking, of the coward who ran from him instead of shaking his hand. It is not a good impression, even if it turns out to not be the first one.   
This man, this person, is the answer to his childhood prayers and the thing that has haunted his nightmares, and Jai does not know how he will be able to speak when they come face to face once more. 

The morning goes slowly. He is not due back at the park until 5 at night, and the man does not get in touch. Jai dresses in his workout clothes, but finds that he does not want to go to the gym, once he is outside. Instead, he walks. Walks down the road to Kentish Town, gets a coffee from the stand outside the tube station. Walks a bit further, goes into the library and spends an hour between the shelves, only looking at the books, opening them at random and reading what he finds there only to put them back a moment later. Once upon a time, when he was young, he hoped he would find his answers in their pages. Now he understands they can only help if you know the question first. 

He walks slowly back to his flat, drinks more coffee. After his bout of sickness this morning, he finds that he is hungry. There is half a block of cheese in the fridge and some bread. That will do. Jai has never been one for more food than is necessary. As he eats, laptop propped on the bedside table, his phone buzzes.

He stares at it, heart thumping, before he finally reaches out and picks it up. It is a message, from an unknown number.

Oh Christ, it’s him.

His hands shake as he reads.

_Hello Jairus, Lukan here. We need to meet, my friend. I am busy with the competitions until 9pm. When are you here?_

Lukan. His name is Lukan. 

_Start work at 5. Finish at 11. Can meet you afterwards._

He sends the message before he is too afraid. He reads it back. It is terse, when Lukan was friendly, or at least pretending to be. Too late now. He cannot take it back.

His phone buzzes.

_Excellent. There is a clock near to the entrance to the athlete’s village. I will be there at 11.30pm. I look forward to seeing you._

Jai does not reply. It does not feel like he needs to. Lukan’s second message is as friendly as the first, even when Jai was short with him. 

Lukan is already too good a person for him.


	7. Book One: Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note that this chapter contains a slur which Jai is directing at himself. Jai has a lot of issues, I'm afraid.

He dresses slowly and hauls himself out of the door, and onto the tube. Malachy has the evening off, so Jai is on his own. It’s ungrateful of him, after everything that the kid has done for him, but he is glad to be alone. He does not think that he could talk much, not until he has finally met Lukan. It is too much. 

This evening, he has been assigned to the swimming pool. By the time he arrives at the start of his shift, the place is full to bursting. He sidles to his seat, high enough in the stands that he has a good view of the people around him, and of the pool, and he puts his mind to his work, observation and alertness, and for a while it is easy to do. 

He has always been able to lose himself in his work, to force his mind to focus on the task at hand. It is not a skill he takes for granted, knowing how useless some of his colleagues are at it; then again, work in general is never something he has taken lightly either. In this life, he battled his way to the top of the force and then into the specials by sheer force of will. No was going to give a dyslexic brat with a handful of half scraped exam results and no family the chance unless he made it himself. So he did, because the only thing Jai has ever known for sure is that no one is on his side.

Jai spends a while with his gaze focused on a couple of guys who look fit to be causing trouble, trying to rouse up the people around them, but the normal security goes over to them and they quieten down pretty quickly. Apart from that, nothing of interest happens, and he finds himself actually watching the action in the water. He’s never had much interest in sport, although Dietrich, his German soldier, did play football in the army. He was good too, and occasionally Jai accompanies Malachy to see Spurs play, and even enjoys it. These athletes are something else though; half his age and capable of more than he has ever been able to do. He wonders if Lukan used to be one of them. A lot of the coaches seem to have been, back in the day. 

Jai sighs and shifts in his seat. Thoughts of Lukan turn his mind back to the dream, and the water of the pool splashing against the tiles is enough to put him right back there, standing on the edge of the bridge, and he jerks back, falling into himself and hitting the back of his seat, hard enough to set the spectators around him on edge.

He slips out of the stalls long enough to grab a coffee, and then heads back in. With only two more hours to go, he would be remiss to leave his post now. Instead of Lukan, he puts his mind back to the study of the crowds and of the athleticism of the swimmers. He has no interest in the women. It is easier to watch the men, see the slide of muscles beneath the skin, and admire the strong shoulders and slim waists. He can watch openly, without Malachy here at his side. The last thing Jai needs is another well meaning question about his fucking sex life. Hard enough to be the idiot cop, let alone the idiot queer cop. Besides, Jai reasons, if all you ever do is look, does that even make you gay at all? No, a small voice replies, it just makes you a fucking pervert. 

Eventually, finally, the swimming ends for the night and Jai is the first out of the door when it does. He can hardly stand the sound of the water anymore, and knowing that Lukan is waiting for him makes it feel as though a string has been tied around his neck and is tugging him along. He loses himself in the crowds and makes for the village, earning himself some interested looks as the spectators thin out and he is left with athletes and coaches. He clearly is not one of them, and they can tell. Jai pulls his baseball cap low and finds he has arrived first at the clock. There is a bench nearby which he gratefully sits on; his legs are shaking and he does not trust them to hold him.

He lights up a cigarette, to give his hands something to do more than actually wanting it, and has smoked through two before he realises that Lukan still hasn’t shown up. He glances at the clock – 11.45 – and swears. He’s not coming. The bastard. Fuming, shaking with what he hopes is only humiliation, Jai takes out his phone and sees a text sent half an hour before; he’d put his phone on silent before he went in to the events, and forgotten to put it back on vibrate when he left.

I am late, my friend. I will be there as soon as I can. 

The leap of his heart as he reads it is pathetic.

He lights up again as a shadow falls over him, and he looks up to find that Lukan is standing in front of him. His breath catches and he cannot speak. Instead, he draws on the cigarette and tips his hat back, hoping that his fear does not show on his face. Lukan does not speak either. He looks down at him, head tilted slightly to the side, and for a moment they stay like that, just staring. 

“Jairus?” the man says eventually, holding out his hand. “I am Lukan. I am very pleased to meet you at last.”

Jai remembers the burning when the man touched him before, but he still finds himself holding out his own hand. It doesn’t hurt, thank God, not like it did before, but the hairs on his neck do stand up and he is glad to see that Lukan is blinking hard and has a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. He is not as in control as he appears. Jai supposes he should be grateful that he doesn’t need to throw up again; that would certainly take them off this level playing field if he had to disappear into the bushes. 

“Call me Jai,” he croaks, bunching his hand into a fist as soon as Lukan lets go of him. “No one calls me Jairus.”

Lukan nods and then there is an awkward silence, in which he moves to sit beside Jai and they watch the stream of people heading into the village thin out until they are almost alone. Jai notes that he gets less looks with Lukan at his side, and that is not surprise. Lukan is dressed impeccably, in jeans and a fitted shirt, a suit jacket over that, and he smiles. Jai watches him from the corner of his eye, sees how he smiles at the stragglers who look at them. Jai has never much trusted people who smile at nothing. 

“Do you know, Jairus,” Lukan turns to him and his voice is soft, his accent lilting. “I cannot stop thinking of you. Have you been thinking of me?”

“Have I been thinking of you?” Jai scoffs, low in his throat. “Like I’ve never bloody thought about anyone else in my life.”

Lukan laughs and gets to his feet, and Jai feels the absence of him at his side as though they have been together much longer than a few minutes.

“Perhaps that was a silly question. Come, my friend. Let’s go and find some wine. God knows that I need some.”


	8. Book One: Chapter Seven

Jai is not entirely sure how he makes it to the wine bar without noticing a single detail of the walk there, but it is only when Lukan opens the door and ushers him inside that he realises they have arrived at all. He had been following blindly in Lukan’s footsteps, and it had not even occurred to him to be concerned about that. 

“Would you like some wine, Jairus?”

“I’ll have a whisky,” he grunts, pushing through the crowd to find a table. It’s noisy but not too unbearable, late enough that some of the drinkers have started to drift out, not so quiet that he’s going to feel exposed. As he walks through, there is a couple vacating a table by the window, and he drops into one of the chairs. He cannot see Lukan but there is something there, warm in his chest, that tells him the man is close by. Jai’s phone buzzes and he checks the message before he switches it off. It’s Malachy.

Did he find you?

He doesn’t answer. The kid will know soon enough. 

Lukan comes to the table with a laden tray; an entire bottle of wine and four whisky glasses. Perhaps he isn’t as calm as he appears on the outside. He sits down slowly, like something pains him, and Jai really looks at the man for the first time. He is older than he appears, easily into his fifties, judging by the greying of his hair and the lines around his eyes. That would make him a few years older than Jai himself, although Lukan definitely looks better on his years. Then again, he is some kind of sportsman.

“What do you do?” he asks, reaching for the first glass that Lukan has placed before him and draining it in one. Lukan pours his first glass of wine and takes a sip before he speaks.

“I am a coach,” he says. “Boxing. How about you? Your friend tells me you work for the police.”

“Can’t tell you much more than that,” Jai says. “Malachy should have kept his mouth shut.”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to pry,” Lukan ducks his head and drinks more wine. The music fills the silence between them, until Lukan tries again.

“I did not mean to begin our conversation this way, but I cannot help myself. Jairus, my friend – you are a Reliver?”

It is so strange to hear the question said out loud that Jai cannot help but laugh, the taste of it bitter in his throat. How long has he been hiding this? How long has he been ashamed? Lukan takes his laughter for ascent, and carries on talking.

“I did not know, you see. That I was a Reliver. Not until I met you.”

“I’ve read about that,” Jai throws back another drink. “It’s rare. To be one and not know.”

“You have known – your whole life?” Lukan is drinking slower than Jai, but his glass is empty, and his cheeks are already red. He is a very handsome man, and as his face softens, Jai finds it hard not to notice that. He shouldn’t be noticing that. That isn’t why he is here.

“This life, the last one, the one before that. Reckon I’ve had three since – since the one I knew you in.”

“Three! And you’ve been looking for me, the whole time?”

“Didn’t know it was you. But yeah.”

There is another silence, and Jai wishes he had the words to fill it. What must Lukan think of him, wreck that he is, can’t even put a sentence together to answer a question? Lukan looks every part the man that Jai could have spent a lifetime searching for. He can’t say that he looks anything like that for Lukan.

A hand shoots across the table and grips his hand, and he starts. Lukan works at Jai’s fingers, until they go loose around the glass he now realises he was holding too tight.

“It is alright. Relax. I am your friend.”

Relax. How can he relax with those fingers touching him, sending sparks of warmth shooting up his arm? He shouldn’t be here. It is too much.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wrenching his hand away and stumbling to his feet. “I can’t.”

“Jairus, please, don’t go!” Lukan follows him to his feet. “Please.”

“It’s too much,” Jai says. “You’re just – let me go.”

His voice is close to pleading and he cannot bear it, but Lukan follows him anyway, abandoning the drinks and the table. They go out onto the street and Jai begins to walk, hopefully towards the station, although he cannot be sure. Behind him, Lukan walks, but he is silent now, at least until they cross the bridge over the river, and Jai’s knees give out beneath him. He gasps and leans against the wall, his legs shaking, and then Lukan is there at his side and he is struggling to breathe too.

“I remember a bridge,” Jai says. “Since I met you, I have remembered a bridge.”

“Yes, yes, I dreamed of a bridge last night,” Lukan nods. “I’ve never had a dream like that before. It was so real.”

They sit side by side, Jai listening to the frantic beat of his heart in his ears, until he realises it is not his heart but the sound of the water that he can hear.

“I don’t know what I did to end up living this life, but it is hell. If you – can give me an answer, I would be grateful.”

Lukan puts a hand on Jai’s knee.

“I hope I can do that for you, my friend.”

The stone of the bridge is cold against Jai’s back, but the heat from Lukan’s hand is burning. Now that the spectators have cleared out, it isn’t too busy and they are alone, and Jai feels calmer than he has felt in days. Lukan’s bulk at his side is reassuring like nothing he has ever felt and he cannot remember the last time he touched another person and didn’t feel revolted at himself.

It has always been revolting, a closeness that he has rarely been able to stand. If anyone ever touched him with kindness, he does not remember it. There’s been the odd quick fuck, here and there, back when he was younger and his blood was boiling, and any guy that could force him to his knees was good enough, but none of those times were ever kind. Jai hasn’t felt the need to find one of those guys in a long time.

But now there is Lukan, and the hand on his knee is gentle, and Jai does not know what he is doing, but he turns his head and Lukan is watching him. He is watching and his eyes are dark with something Jai thinks he recognises and when Lukan’s hand leaves his knee and comes to touch his face, Jai is paralysed. Lukan strokes his cheek and Jai is on fire and Lukan’s whisper is soft.

“It is funny,” he says. “Funny but I feel as though – as though I want to touch you. I want to –”

It surprises Jai more than anything else that he is the one who leans in first.


	9. Book One: Chapter Eight

For a second, it is as though time has stopped, and then Lukan’s hand shoots out to grip Jai’s jacket, just as he is about to pull away. Jai wants to fight, but he also does not want to. He’s on the cold ground but Lukan is kissing him now, and Christ what do they look like down here? People are walking past – in the most detached part of himself, Jai can see them – and he’s on the fucking floor like a – like the kind of people that he arrests. But the rest of him, mind and body, feels as though a fever is raging, hot and cold and it is disgusting and it is beautiful.

It cannot carry on like this.

_It must._

It does not.

Lukan, for all he pulled him in, pushes him away too, and scrambles to his feet. His eyes are wild and a memory hits Jai, of a man – Lukan – in chains, hunted down, cursing and spitting. Jai is looking at that man as though he is the hunter. His hand grips the chains and the man snarls once more before Jai comes back to himself and watches Lukan fleeing, across the bridge, back towards the Olympic village.

If he thought his legs would hold him, Jai would follow. Something in his blood sings at the thought of a chase, and then the feeling is gone and he thinks instead of the chains in his hand and does not know what to do.

Somehow, he makes it home, spending the money for a taxi because the fever is raging beneath his skin, and he does not trust himself to navigate the underground. He feels the weight of a chain in one hand, gripped hard in his fist, and he tastes the wine Lukan drank on his lips, his tongue. It is a thick, cloying taste and he rinses his mouth three times before he realises it is a memory he is tasting.

His phone does not ring, but he checks it anyway.

In bed, for the first time in months, he touches himself; something, anything, to relieve some of the pressure in his chest, and he uses his left hand, because the weight of Lukan’s chains are in his right. Jai has never enjoyed this, feels dirty even now as he grips himself, but what even is it compared to being sprawled on a filthy London street, kissing a stranger? 

He tries not to think of Lukan but it is impossible. The man is consuming him and he does not know why. It should not be like this. They should be trying to find the mistake, to fix it, but his filth, the dirt in his soul is making it into this instead, whatever this is. He is weak and he pretends now that it is Lukan’s hand on him, a strong fist using hard, jerky pulls because Lukan wants him terribly, and he cannot control himself. It hurts – it is too dry and too quick – but this is what Jai deserves. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth and comes when Lukan stops to squeeze his balls, tight. It is sticky and uncomfortable and he has no energy to stand and clean himself. He wipes his hand on the sheet and curls into a ball, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and neck.

He is coming apart. 

Whoever he is now, it is coming apart.

Jai cries himself to sleep, tears of rage and humiliation, because he does not know what else is to be done.

When he wakes in the morning, his pillow is damp and there is a message on his phone.

_I am sorry. I should not have left you._

He does not answer it. Lukan should not be the one apologising.

Jai drags himself to the shower, shaking with fever, but desperate to be rid of the dried crust on his legs. He strips the sheets and shove them into the washing machine. Then he goes back to bed, a coffee gripped in his hands. He does not usually stay in bed, and has certainly never gone back beyond waking, but the heat in his blood is making him weak and he wonders if he is ill. Perhaps he has been ignoring a true sickness these past few days, mistaking it for Lukan’s influence. Perhaps it is both reasons. Whatever they are, he has run out of fight.

In all of his years with the police, Jai has never had to call in sick. He does not know the protocol. He props himself on the pillow and phones Malachy. He answers so quickly that Jai can only assume he had the phone in his hand.

“Jai, man, where have you been?”

“I need to phone in sick,” he says, avoiding the question and hoping Malachy gets the message. “Who do I need-”

“You’re ill? What’s up? You’re never ill.”

“A temperature, I think. Headache. I’ll be back in a day or two.”

“Hmm,” Malachy does not sound convinced. “Tell you what. I’ll let them know that you’re not coming in the rest of the week, saves you talking to them. But then you have to let me in when I come round.”

“Thank you, but I don’t need you here,” Jai speaks slowly, trying to stop his teeth from chattering as they want to. “Just give me the number.”

“Bullshit, Jai! If you’re calling in, you’re bad. Please just let me come and check on you. I’ll bring you some medicine, I bet you don’t have any. And then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

Jai’s head hurts too much to argue. He probably really does need something to treat this, he doesn’t have any food in the fridge, and he’s embarrassed himself enough on the streets of London in the last few days to last him a lifetime. 

“Alright,” he grinds through a clamped jaw. “Fine. I’ll text you a list.”

He hangs up and although it takes him far longer than it should, he manages to make out a shopping list for Malachy. The letters on the screen are swimming in front of his eyes and his fingers are stiff, but it will have to do. If he’s fucked anything up, Malachy will probably be able to work it out.

That done, he reads Lukan’s message again, leaves it open on the screen and passes out, wrapped in the bare duvet and two blankets.

He wakes to the buzz of the front door and squints at his alarm clock. It is one in the afternoon. He’s been asleep for hours. Jai drags himself to the phone and buzzes Malachy up, leaving the door on the latch so he can let himself in. He goes back to the bedroom and pulls on a hoodie and sweats, an extra pair of socks and makes the bed as best he can. 

“Hey!” Malachy calls from the front door. “Got the stuff.”

There are two clunks as his boots hit the floor, and then he appears in the doorway with three bulging carrier bags.

“Hello,” Jai sinks into his chair before he falls. “Thanks for this.”

“Christ, you look like shit,” Malachy says, peering at him. “Should you be in bed?”

“Have been till you got here.”

“Huh. Well, stay there. I got this.”

He bustles through to the kitchen and starts opening and closing doors enthusiastically, finding homes for the food that Jai asked him to collect. Then comes the sound of a kettle filling and a can being opened, a plate being shoved into the microwave. 

“You haven’t eaten, I bet?” Malachy appears in the doorway again, and smirks when Jai shakes his head. “Well, I got us lunch. And you’re gonna eat it or I’m not gonna leave. So there.”

Jai thinks it is testament to how shit he feels that he just nods and allows Malachy to continue taking liberties. He probably dozes off again sat at the table, because the next thing he knows, Malachy is putting bowls of soup and bread down, then he goes back to the kitchen and comes back with two mugs of tea and a glass of water.

“You need to eat first, the pharmacist said,” Malachy explains, unfolding the spare chair that Jai keeps leaning against the boiler in the kitchen, and sits himself at the table. “Then you have to take these meds. Good for colds and flu. She also gave me some lemony crap you drink like tea and some ibuprofen.”

“Thanks,” Jai mutters, concentrating on holding the spoon in his trembling hand. The soup is tomato and the bread is soft, and once he starts to eat, he realises that he is hungry. He eats most of it, grateful that Malachy doesn’t comment on how long it takes him. 

“When I told the pharmacist how long you’d been feeling off, she said you should probably see a doctor,” Malachy says, sipping his tea. “But I don’t think it’s that. It’s him, right? Why you feel so bad?”

“Don’t know,” Jai says. “Could be. Could not.”

Malachy nods, and hands him two pills and the water.

“Well, whatever it is, you’re signed off for a week from today, no arguments.” 

“A week-”

“That wasn’t me,” Malachy shrugs. “Once I told Wiley that you were ill, he said to tell you to take a week and you aren’t allowed back until it’s over. He said you’ve never looked after yourself and the force owes it to you. So shut up and take your pills and get some bloody sleep, yeah?”

“You’re starting to take the piss,” Jai growls, chucking the tablets and the water back.

“That’s what I do,” Malachy scoops up the bowls and wanders through to the kitchen, washing up and making enough noise about it. Jai staggers through to the bathroom, wipes the sweat from his face and neck, and just about makes it back to the bed. 

He is almost asleep again when he hears Malachy creep in, pick up his jacket and creep out again. 

“I’ll phone you later,” Malachy murmurs. “Be safe, old man.”

Jai does not answer him.


	10. Book One: Chapter Nine

By the evening of the third day, Jai is so bored that he is emailing the office, begging for something, anything, to work on. He is still exhausted, but the temperature seems to be under control, and the almost constant headache is easing too. Wiley isn’t keen to give him the work, shooting back that Jai is supposed to be resting. Jai promises that he is, that he has barely left his bed, but that he’ll go mad if he has to listen to his own brain for much longer. 

He does not know when Wiley sleeps, because when he wakes up the next day, Jai has several files in his inbox. It isn’t much, busy work, but he sends them to the printer and goes to make coffee.

Malachy has brought him far too much food, much more than he asked for, but it would be a crime to waste it, so he picks up a sausage roll and nibbles it whilst the kettle is boiling. With the printer clicking away happily in the next room, the silence of the flat is broken and Jai already feels better. If he can work, distract himself, all the better.

He has not heard from Lukan since the message of apology, but he has dreamed of him, variations on the themes of chains, bridges, gunpowder and water. And always Lukan’s eyes, most often set in a face that is bearded and lined with age. Jai has never seen himself in these dreams, other than as a pair of dark hands clutching a chain, or leaning on the stone as he climbs onto a parapet.

The dreams are endless.

The kettle clicks and he makes coffee, takes himself back to bed with the mug and freshly printed pages. He feels well now, but he knows if he tries to sit at his desk, in an hour or so he will be unable to move and will sleep for the rest of the day. 

He loses himself in the work and is feeling almost himself when, at two o’clock, the front door buzzes and his pen freezes on the page.

Malachy. 

Jai searches for his phone beneath the piles of paper, but when he finds it, there is no message. Malachy knows better than to drop in on him unannounced, so it cannot be him. So he ignores it, or he tries to, as a moment later it rings again, and again.

Cursing, he shoves the paper to the side of the bed and stands up, too quickly, as his head starts to spin. He feels his way to the phone by the door.

“What?” he barks, and a cautious voice answers.

“Hello, Jairus? It is Lukan here.”

Oh _shit._ Jai’s hard won strength leaves him and he has to lean on the wall before he falls.

“Jairus? Can I come up?”

“Why?” he asks. “What do you want?”

“To talk. Only talk.”

Part of him pushes to tell the man to go away, but the rest of him is already pressing the button to let him in. Jai stumbles to the bathroom and looks at his reflection. Excellent, looking like death warmed up. His face is drawn and the black circles beneath his eyes make him look like a junkie. He tries to pull his hair back into a neater ponytail than it has wound itself into, but is only partially successful. 

Although he is expecting it, the knock on the door makes him jump.

Grimacing, he goes to the door and peers through the spyhole. Lukan is stood back, a bag in his hand, and he looks exactly as handsome as he looked the last time. Too damn handsome. Jai steels himself and opens the door.

“Did Malachy send you?” he asks, by way of greeting.

“He told me where I could find you,” Lukan fiddles with the bag. “But only because I asked. I was worried when you did not reply to my message.”

“Well, here I am,” Jai snaps, trying not to look as though the doorpost is the only thing keeping him on his feet. Lukan takes a small step back at his tone, and Jai growls low in his throat. 

“I’ve been ill. Sorry to have concerned you.”

“Yes, Malachy said as much. So I brought some lunch. Perhaps we could eat it together?”

Jai doesn’t have the strength to argue. He simply turns and concentrates on staying upright for long enough to make it to the desk. He sits down, shoving things out of the way to make room. The door closes softly and Lukan peers in from the hall.

“Where are the plates?”

“In the sink,” Jai smirks humourlessly, feeling the prickly heat of a blush on his cheeks. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Quite alright,” Lukan is already in the kitchen, and there is the rush of water as the taps switch on. “I did not warn you.”

It is a strange replay of Malachy’s visit, the details almost the same. Jai has had no other person in his flat since he moved here, and now in the space of four days, there have been two. He is not good at sharing his space, even for only an hour or two, and cannot even guard it properly now. Malachy and Lukan making free in the kitchen – it is not what he would have preferred.

He hauls himself to his feet and collects up all of the papers scattered on the bed, tucking them underneath the duvet, out of sight. Whatever is happening, he does not want Lukan to think that he lives like this all of the time. He is attempting to change his hoodie for a shirt when Lukan appears in the doorway, quicker than he had imagined he would. Jai freezes, hand halfway into the wardrobe, feeling intensely vulnerable only half dressed.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Lukan half turns away. “Only – would you like some tea with your lunch?”

“Yes,” Jai says, anything to get him to leave quickly. Lukan needs no encouragement, fleeing to the kitchen, and as Jai abandons his shirt, picking up his hoodie once again, he remembers that Lukan had been kissing him back. His stomach twisting, Jai sits down and composes a message to Malachy, to let him know that he will be murdered at the next possible opportunity. 

When Lukan returns, this time making enough noise to announce himself, Jai stands to pull out the spare chair so the man can sit down. He tries not to notice Lukan’s smile as he sits.

For want of anything to say, Jai glances down at the plates. Meat, cheese, olives, bread. It is more his sort of food than Malachy’s soup and he picks up the bread. He is hungry.

“How are you feeling?” Lukan does not touch his food, choosing to pick up his tea instead. “Malachy said you were – feverish, is the word?”

“Better than I was,” Jai nods, noticing that Lukan must have rolled up his sleeves to wash up, and not let them down again. His arms are thick with muscle, and decorated with tattoos. They look strange on so composed a man but the base creature in Jai’s gut cannot say it does not like how they look. 

“You told me that you coach boxing?” he asks.

“I do.”

“Did you box yourself?”

“I did,” Lukan picks up an olive and rolls it between his fingers. “I was even quite good. When I retired, I opened a gym. I am a better coach than I was a fighter. I only ever fought for the money.”

“I see,” Jai stuffs some more bread in his mouth, so he does not have to speak. He has already exhausted his supply of small talk. He hopes that Lukan is better at it.

He is, as it transpires, not.

They eat in silence, ten minutes of painful silence, and Jai feels as though the weight of it is pressing him down. Each time he sneaks a glance at Lukan, however, the man is calm, or at least he seems to be. Only when he has carefully eaten every morsel on his plate, and Jai feels he can hardly breathe, does Lukan begin to speak.

“I am sorry I ran from you, my friend. At the bridge.”

His head is down and Jai cannot see his face, but his voice is barely more than a whisper.

“It’s alright.”

“It isn’t,” Lukan glances up. “I was scared.”

Jai lets out a bark of laughter. “And you think I wasn’t?”

“Well –” Lukan seems to be searching for the words. It is an odd look on so strong a man. 

“You kissed me,” Lukan chuckles. “I thought that you-”

“I have no idea what is happening,” Jai shoves his chair back, to put more space between them. Lukan’s laughter is warm and it makes his shiver.

“I don’t – none of this. I can’t-”

“I have been reading Reliver stories, these last few days,” Lukan butts in, before Jai has to find a way to end his sentence. “They are very interesting. You are right, I think, that I am one of these rarer types. I really did have no idea.”

This is safe territory, and Jai nods.

“I’ve been dreaming more than ever, about that life. You’re always there.”

“As you are in mine,” Lukan frowns. “But I do not think we were friends.”

“The chains.”

“The chains,” Lukan gets to his feet and clatters the plates together, his eyes flickering. “Excuse me. I’ll tidy.”

Jai does not protest. He knows a flashback when he sees one. It is likely that Lukan’s dreams have been even more intense than his, unused as he is to dreaming about his past lives. The trauma of it. Jai remembers the fear of his first dream, in this life. The horror that pinned the five year old boy to his bed and the screams that summoned only the matron, who tugged his wet sheets from the bed, changed his pyjamas and left without a word of comfort. Jai learned early on that he was on his own.

But now there was Lukan.

Feeling stronger, in part thanks to the food, Jai makes his way to the kitchen. He cannot help it – he is compelled, some memory that pumps around in his blood and makes it sing. He still can’t quite believe he has found the man at all.

Lukan is humming as he dries the plates, the kettle boiling again, and it seems his moment of fright has passed.

“You look better already,” Lukan says, shy under Jai’s scrutiny. “You have some of your colour back.”

Jai makes a vague noise but does not answer. The kettle clicks off and Lukan makes more tea. He adds sugar to them both and Jai realises why his first cup had tasted strange. 

“I don’t take sugar.”

“You do today. It won’t be a bad thing to put some weight on your bones.”

There is no answer to that, not when the only reason Lukan knows that is because he has seen him without a shirt. Jai takes the offered mug and goes back to the table. Lukan uses the bathroom and then goes to the bookcase, running his finger along the spine. He has to tilt his head up to read them, placed as they are at Jai’s eye level.

“You have a strange collection here,” Lukan says, pausing on ‘The God Delusion’. “But interesting. Do you read a lot?”

“Not really. When I have time.”

“I always think I should read. I never seem to find the opportunity.”

“You must be well educated though. Your English is impeccable.”

“Thank you,” Lukan leaves the books and comes back to perch on the too small chair. “I spent some time in Canada when I was small, and lived in London for two years when I was boxing. I didn’t learn very much at school.”

“Me neither,” Jai says, surprised that he is sharing. “I’m – well, later on, they said I was dyslexic. That’s why I’m so slow.”

“That must have been difficult,” Lukan reaches out and touches Jai’s hand, and the heat rushes up Jai’s arm. Lukan must feel it too, but he does not pull back. There is silence, aching and burning silence, and Jai knows that if he wasn’t at home, he would already be running. It is like flies are buzzing in his ears and crawling under his skin and Lukan looks so bloody calm, so calm, and isn’t fair. It is not supposed to be this complicated.

“Jairus, what is happening to us?” Lukan whispers.

“I don’t know. I need to find out the truth. I need to know who I am. That is the important thing. Anything else – I don’t know if -.”

Jai grinds his teeth and pulls his hand away because he cannot bear it. Lukan seems to understand, flexing his fingers, rubbing his hand on his leg. He rocks in his chair, once, twice, three times, then gets to his feet.

“I will do my best,” he says, reaching to unbutton his sleeves and roll them down, and his voice is unsteady. “We will find it out together.”

He turns to leave, then comes back, and the brush of his lips against Jai’s is light and almost chaste, save for the tingling that shakes them both again.

“I promise, Jairus. We’ll know it all.”


	11. Book One: Chapter Ten

Finally, Monday arrives and Jai is allowed to go back to work. He rises even earlier than usual, washes his hair, makes himself a coffee and feels oddly nervous, as though he had been away for more than five days. He’s never had so long a break with nothing to be done except recover, and the dreams have only made him twitchier in his own company.

Lukan has texted him every day, but thankfully stayed away, to give him space to think. Malachy was not so polite, and invited himself around again. Jai was grateful for his company, even if they did only prop the laptop on the desk and watch the Olympic football.

Jai dresses carefully, and is stepping out of the door when his phone rings. It is Wiley.

“Good morning, inspector.”

Wiley is chirpy for seven in the morning.

“Superintendent,” Jai holds the phone away from his ear. “I’m just on the-”

“I want you to come into the office, Jai,” Wiley interrupts him. “Now.”

Jai does not mean to pull the door closed quite so hard, and can only imagine what it sounds like on the other end of the phone.

“But sir-”

“It’s alright, Jai, there’s no trouble. We just need to chat.”

Jai grits his teeth. He hates chat and Wiley knows it.

“I’m on my way,” he sighs. “Be there soon.”

It isn’t as far to the office as it is to Stratford, and the building is quiet when he arrives. He takes his time, smoking a cigarette outside, collecting a coffee on the way in, climbing the stairs instead of using the lift. 

A few people are at their desks, and they glance up as he walks past. Does he look different? Can they see it on him, his turmoil? Can they see his life falling apart, even as he walks amongst them? None of them have ever liked him much anyway, so it hardly matters. Why then is he going red? It doesn’t matter what a single one of them might be thinking.

Wiley is behind his desk, and he smiles when Jai walks it. It isn’t an unfamiliar sight, this smile, but he has hardly earned it now.

“Inspector Connell,” Wiley nods towards the chair. “Take a pew.”

Jai is careful to close the door before he sits down. The last thing he needs is to have anyone overhear him being bollocked. He drops into the chair, pushing it back to make room for his legs and tries to look Wiley in the eye.

“How are you feeling?” Wiley speaks after a moment of silence. “I checked your records. You’ve never been ill.”

“I’m fine,” Jai says too quickly – too quick – because Wiley is looking at his face with far too much interest.

“Hmm. I think you look like shit, inspector. Noticeably shit.”

There doesn’t seem to be an answer to that, so Jai just tries to stare the man down instead. It doesn’t work.

“Well, whatever you want me to believe, I don’t,” Wiley says. “But I’m glad you’re back. I want you in the office, for the time being. We’re struggling with most of that rabble out of here.”

Desk duty? Hasn’t he been punished enough?

“But superintendent-”

“There’s no argument. You’re staying here. I need you.”

“Yes, sir.” Jai grits his teeth and stands so quickly that he almost knocks his chair flying. He does not know what to say, so he says nothing. He has never been good at arguing his case with superiors, or anyone really, but that does not stop the stab of shame in his stomach when Wiley speaks once more and oh God, his voice is gentle.

“This isn’t a punishment, Jai. I’m worried about you.”

Pity. The man is pitying him and he almost cannot stand it.

His desk waits for him, stacked with fresh files undoubtedly chosen to keep him busy, but he walks past it and goes outside, storming through a crowd of people and throwing himself onto a bench. He smokes two cigarettes, muttering darkly under his breath and cursing the whole fucking universe that is trying to take him apart, piece by piece. 

Then, before he can be retrieved like a stray dog, he goes back to his desk. The depleted staff around him know better than to bother him and he works with a furious pace, burning through the files because he cannot do anything else.

So goes his first day back at work, followed by a bottle of whisky that knocks him into oblivion. Let Wiley have something to really worry about.

He is at his desk two days later when Lukan gets in touch once more.

Jai starts at the buzz of his phone, thrown carelessly into his top drawer, but he doesn’t make a grab for it. He doesn’t want to look to his colleagues as though he has been waiting too eagerly for something. He’s seen enough of them over the years, making fools of themselves, mooning over texts and whispering into their phones. It’s ridiculous, grown adults behaving like that, and at their place of work, to add insult to injury. He waits, takes a breath, slides his phone out. It is Lukan, and the message is long.

_Hello, my friend. I saw young Malachy yesterday and he told me that you had been confined to barracks. I have been thinking of you often and although I have no more answers yet, I would like to see you again. If you have any interest in boxing, you are welcome to join me tomorrow night as my guest, or you are welcome to suggest something else. Let me know what you would prefer._

Jai reads the message three times. Lukan has been thinking of him. It is one thing to think that perhaps Lukan is feeling the pull of the connection between them, and another to see it confirmed in front of him. Jai doesn’t know if it is the Reliver or the man that is talking to him, or if they are separate beings at all. He is no longer certain that they are separate within himself, or if his taste for men strong enough to pin him down is something he has carried for a long time for a reason. 

He shivers. He should not be thinking of that here, he and glances around to see if any of his colleagues have read it on his face. None of them are looking at him, mercifully, and he drags his thoughts away from the feel of Lukan’s bulk resting against him, away from the feel of his lips and types a reply.

_Tomorrow is fine. I’ll be there._

On Thursday night, Jai gets ready to go out with more care than he can ever remember taking. 

He leaves work on time, for once, and lingers at the sink in his bathroom, trimming his sideburns precisely, then takes far too long to shower, washing and drying his hair that he somehow found time to have cut at the barber the day before.

Dressing, he finds, is a complicated thing when one is actually considering the clothes to be put on, and he is almost at a loss. Lukan has only ever seen him in jeans and shirts, with his old boots on his feet, and part of him longs to be wearing something different when he arrives tonight. The problem, of course, is how little he actually owns. 

In the end, he settles for a pair of dark green chinos that he had bought to wear the year he was forced to attend the work Christmas meal, and one of his usual shirts, one of the tighter ones that he owns, and as a last minute detail, he rolls up his sleeves, remembering how Lukan’s arms had looked when his sleeves were arranged similarly. 

Jai is under no illusion, as he scowls at his reflection, that he looks in any way as desirable as Lukan looks to him, but there is little more he can do about that. Nothing will change the fact that he is too thin, that he always looks exhausted, that his smile makes him look like a dog at its prey. He gives the man in the mirror a final filthy look and, before he loses the ounce of courage that is driving him, he grabs his jacket and heads for the door. 

Take it or leave it, this is all he has to offer Lukan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boy Jai has some Issues™, right?


	12. Book One: Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy.

He arrives early, nerves jangling, and realises that he doesn’t know where he is supposed to go. Standing outside the boxing arena, Jai texts Lukan and then lights a cigarette to steady his hands. He doesn’t expect an answer – Lukan must be busy, after all – but he has some time before he really needs to start panicking. 

He isn’t expecting Lukan to appear at his side, only moments later.

“You came,” Lukan speaks softly, a hand resting on Jai’s arm. “I didn’t know for sure that you would.”

His voice is light where the words are not, and Jai does not know what to make of it at all. He has no skill with words or flirtation, not like he needs now. Thankfully, Lukan already understands this, somehow, or at least he seems to.

“Come, my friend,” Lukan says, and his hand brushes Jai’s as he turns to walk back inside. There is the jolt of heat, familiar now, that Jai is beginning to think is not entirely to do with Reliving, and his hand itches to join with Lukan’s, to feel those wide fingers wrapped around his. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and follows Lukan into the arena.

“I have a seat for you,” Lukan says, over his shoulder, threading through the crowds. “Ringside, as my guest.”

Jai hardly trusts himself to speak, so he clears his throat to indicate that he is listening. Lukan chatters on.

“It has been a long day, but we are doing well. My boy - the fighter you will see – I am very proud of him. He is young but dedicated. You would approve, I think.”

He shoots Jai a grin over his shoulder, the happiest he has looked and Jai smiled back. He smiles back and isn’t that the maddest thing of all?

The arena is buzzing and Lukan seems to thrive on it, greeting a vast array of people so quick in succession that Jai gives up looking at them and concentrates on Lukan’s broad back, how his uniform shirt fits tightly across his shoulder, his greying hair gently brushing his collar when he turns his head. He is, undoubtedly, too good looking a man, and Jai feels hot even before he is seated at the ringside with a beer that has been thrust into his hand.

“When the fights have finished, we will go for drinks,” Lukan says. “If you like?”

“I would like that,” Jai says, and is rewarded with a hand clasped on his shoulder and one of those smiles once more. He watches Lukan walk away until he loses him in the crowd, then settles in his seat with his beer. For a fleeting moment, he wishes he had Malachy at his side, to watch the sport with him and explain things, or at least to be a voice that he recognises here in this din. 

Jai shakes himself and sips his beer, using the time instead to watch the people around him, many of whom seem to be officials, or at least related to the event in some way. He feels out of place, but that is nothing new, and he must bear it, or else he will not see Lukan again this evening, and a part of himself that has long been silenced is awake and reminding him that it exists.

He does not enjoy the boxing, if he is honest, but he watches as diligently as he can. Something deep inside tells him that sports such as this have caused him trouble before, that he has not enjoyed them as a participant either. But boxing has been a lifesaver for many young men, in London and around the world, a channel for energies that are otherwise misspent, and he cannot condemn it. He is even less likely to, now that he knows it has been so important in Lukan’s life. 

He wonders idly if Lukan had been one of those young men saved by this sport and hopes, as much as he dares, that he was, because that would mean that maybe they are more equal than he originally thought. It would suggest that Lukan is slightly less of the shining star than he appears to be. It would be nice, Jai thinks, to not always be bending his neck to look up at the pedestal, and then immediately feels guilty for the thought. What right has he to drag the man down to his level? 

To quiet his mind, he goes in search of more beer, downs one at the bar and takes a second back to his seat.

After that, the evening seems to flow much better, especially as he is on his fourth beer by the time the events are finished and his phone buzzes again.

Meet me outside in half an hour.

Jai walks with the crowd and finds himself a bench to sit on. The air is cool and as it hits his face, he begins to feel more sober. He’s had too much beer on no food and he tells himself off for it – he hasn’t been drunk in public for so long he cannot even remember the last time that he was. He hopes Lukan won’t judge him too badly. 

The bar Lukan chooses, when he finally arrives, is almost riotous, and Jai is not so drunk that he does not hesitate at the noise, but then Lukan takes his hand to pull him inside and the bristling dog rolls over, appeased. 

“What did you think of him?” Lukan pushes through to the bar, quite at home in the place, and his face is flushed and Jai is not sure he even heard the words until Lukan repeats them in his ear. His breath washes over Jai’s cheek and goosepimples follow in its wake. 

“My boy?” Lukan says. “I found him living in a one roomed flat with his mother and two younger sisters. He hadn’t had a new pair of shoes for three years and he left school at twelve. And now, he will win a gold medal and his life will change forever.”

“He hasn’t won yet,” Jai says, surprised to find himself joking. Lukan gazes at him with unfocused eyes and then he laughs. He sounds as drunk as Jai feels, and it strikes Jai that he must have been drinking at the arena. Perhaps he was drinking because he is as nervous as Jai feels.

Lukan claps him on the shoulder, then turns to the barman who has been making his way along the clamouring line. Jai doesn’t hear what he orders but it hardly matters, because he will drink whatever Lukan puts in front of him. There are shots, a row of them each, tiny glasses that appear from nowhere and it burns Jai’s throat, but Lukan is laughing and it slides down a little easier. The music is pounding in his ears and he is buffeted from side to side by the swell of people at the bar and he should hate it, he’s always hated it, but Lukan hands him a double whisky and they stumble to a corner to drink them.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Lukan says. “I was worried that you would refuse.”

“Why?”

“I do not-” Lukan shakes his head like he is trying to get water from his ear. “After that day at your flat. I – I wondered if I had been too much for you.”

“Too much?” Jai is watching Lukan’s mouth move, how the man runs a nervous tongue over his bottom lip, leaving it shiny and red. He lifts his glass to stop himself leaning forwards and tasting that lip for himself. He is hot, so hot that he is shaking and he knows that Lukan can see it. He wonders if the man’s heart is thundering like his own. 

“You are – you were unsure of me,” Lukan leans forwards. “Are you still?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Jai slurs. “About any of this. About Reliving. About – about you.”

Lukan gazes at him, surprised perhaps by the stark admission, or maybe just so drunk that he has lost the capacity for speech. The silence between them is filled by the music, so loud that it no longer sounds like music, and then something darkens in Lukan’s eyes and he drains his drink. Jai takes the cue and finishes his own, follows Lukan through the crowd once more. It feels right, he thinks, to follow Lukan, when he has spent so much of his life refusing to step in another person’s shadow.

They get out into the street, eyed by the bouncers, and Jai can hardly blame them. He and Lukan are much older than most of the other patrons, and Jai isn’t so drunk that he can’t imagine what they are thinking; older guys, selling to the kids. Lukan doesn’t know this and Jai grabs his hand to drag him away from the danger. They stumble, hand in hand, to the nearest corner and then round the next, and by then Jai’s head spins so much that he has to let go. He tugs Lukan into an alley and leans against the wall, gasping.

Lukan appears before him, panting for breath too, and he hesitates for less than a second before he throws himself at Jai, pressing him into the wall. There is a brief moment more where their breath mingles and then Lukan is kissing him and Jai is glad for the wall holding him up. 

Lukan’s mouth is hot and Jai can only cling to him as Lukan pushes his tongue into mouth, his hands tangled roughly into Jai’s hair to hold him still. They kiss until Jai cannot breathe and he must pull away. Lukan does not stop, his mouth on Jai’s neck and when he closes his lips on Jai’s pulse and sucks on it, Jai cannot stop the desperate jerk of his hips.

Lukan groans and his hips answer in kind. He is hard too, which Jai can hardly bring himself to believe. His body, so long neglected in this life and perhaps in the others too, is waking to Lukan’s touch and he is helpless to stop it. They should not be here, in a dirty alley, rutting like dogs. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could see but Jai cannot mind it, not when Lukan’s mouth is still at his throat and his hand is – oh God, Lukan is touching him there. His blunt fingers trace the outline of Jai’s cock, straining beneath his tight trousers and Jai is only grateful that Lukan cannot get the leverage to squeeze, else he’d probably come before they have even started. 

“Touch me,” Lukan growls suddenly, licking his ear. “Please touch me.”

Jai can barely think, but he lifts his hands and reaches to untuck Lukan’s shirt, runs the palms of his hands up his back. Lukan’s forehead is resting on Jai’s shoulder as he tries to get more leverage on Jai’s cock, and all Jai can do it pepper the man’s hair with kisses and cling to him, digging his fingernails into Lukan’s shoulders. 

“Oh God,” he groans as Lukan finds the button of his trousers, tries to slide his hand in at the awkward angle. Jai is too tall but Lukan is persistent and Jai feels the slide of warm flesh down his stomach and creeping into his trousers and then – 

“What the fuck is this then, lads?”

Lukan freezes at the sound of the voice, harsh and mocking, and Jai turns his head to see five men at the end of the alley, laughing, and moving towards them. They’ve been caught.


	13. Book One: Chapter Twelve

“Just a couple of guys having a good time,” one of the men crows, as Lukan springs away and Jai fumbles to fasten his trousers. They are trapped in the alley, the way out blocked, and Jai glances at Lukan. He is flushing but his eyes are focused on the men.

“Just a couple of guys,” the leader speaks again, and he is slurring. “Looks like a couple of old pervs to me.”

The men laugh and Jai tries not to look at them, tries to focus, tries to look for a way out. If only he had his badge. That would be enough. It might be enough. But he doesn’t have it, and they are alone. 

“Alright,” he says, stepping in front of Lukan. “That’s enough.”

“Didn’t look enough to me,” the biggest one steps forwards. He is young. Too young and too stupid to know better.

“Looked like you were just getting started. Don’t you want to finish off?”

All of the boys jeer, and it is manic. Jai knows that sound. It is out of control, not far from the edge and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Look, we fucked up. Drank too much, it happens. Turn around and walk away and that can be the end of it.”

The leader rolls his head to the side, considering Jai’s words, before his eyes flicker to Lukan and he grins.

“Your boyfriend looks ready for a fight,” he drawls. “So I think that makes you the girl here, right?”

“He did look pretty up for it,” another one says. “Did you see his face when-”

There is no time for the boy to finish. Lukan launches at him, fists flying, and lands the first punch on an unsuspecting jaw before the boys even realise he has moved. Jai curses and follows him into the fight. There is nothing else he can do.

He loses track of Lukan pretty quickly, loses track of everything except his own fists and the sounds of scuffling around him. The first boy doesn’t get up – Lukan has knocked him out cold – and another has run, so there are three. One lands a lucky blow on Jai’s nose and Jai drops to the ground, hard, onto his wrist and he cries out in pain. Another body hits the deck and Jai watches through blurred eyes as Lukan grapples with the last one. 

It is dark, too dark to see properly, but the boy seems to be coming off worse. There is a commotion at the end of the alley and the beam of a torch passes over them. It is the bouncers from the bar, along with the boy who ran. One of the bouncers, a huge man, grabs Lukan by his shirt and pulls him away, out onto the street.

“No!”

Jai doesn’t recognise his own voice, and he drags himself to his feet, clutching one hand to his broken nose, feeling the blood drip down his wrist.

“I’m with the police,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket, offering it to the other bouncer. “Call my boss. These boys attacked us.”

“Coppers on their way,” the man shrugs. “Tell it to them. Your mate knocked out three of them.”

Jai shakes his head, white lights in his eyes, and he turns to Lukan who is docile now at the feel of a hand on his collar. Something in his downturned face, his hunched shoulders, tugs at Jai and he steps closer.

“Are you alright?”

“I lost my temper,” Lukan glances up, grimaces at the sight of Jai’s nose and looks back down. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Jai says, as a police van pulls up. He turns to talk to the officers, but the two boys left standing do so as well, and in the end the woman holds her hands up.

“Everyone shut it, please. Give us a minute.”

“Out cold!” her companion calls from the alley. “Need an ambulance!”  
Lukan groans and buries his face in his hands as the officer makes the call on her radio.

“Right,” she says. “You. You said you’re an officer?”

Jai nods, explains what happened without telling her exactly what he and Lukan had been doing. The boys have their turn to speak and, perhaps embarrassed at their behaviour, also do not tell her what they had seen. 

“Right,” she says again, catching her colleague’s eye. “You four on your feet are coming in.”

“But-”

Jai is cut off as the two young men are helped into one side of the van’s mobile cell, then he hears a click behind him. The male officer is putting cuffs on Lukan and as they click closed, Lukan gives a great shudder and seems to go limp. Jai feels something within him snap. He cannot explain it but the sheer indignity of cuffs on Lukan is too much and he throws himself forwards.

“No,” he yells. “Get them off him. Now!”

“Sir, calm-”

“Get them off!”

He grabs at the officer holding Lukan, and his head throbs, pounding in his skull and he can smell salt, as though he is by the sea. He feels a breeze ruffling his hair and just for a second, Lukan wears a red shirt, his head shaved and it’s wrong, it’s all wrong and it can’t-it shouldn’t – he can’t-

“Sir!”

The voice is in his ear and he realises that he is being held against the side of the van, his own hands in cuffs, his wrist burning from where he fell on it and his shoulder aches.

“Calm down!”

It is the woman. The man is still supporting Lukan, who looks hardly able to stand, helping him into the other half of the cell in the van. The woman whirls Jai around and looks up at him.

“Why did you do that?” she asks. “It’s just standard, you know that.”

Jai doesn’t answer, his face burning with shame and he allows himself to be manhandled into the van beside Lukan. The door slams shut and he sits down before his legs give way. Lukan trembles at his side, his breath half a sob, and Jai wonders what he has seen, for surely he saw something too.

“Lukan-”

He moves as quickly as he did before, presses his mouth to Jai’s in a desperate kiss. It hurts; Jai’s nose is still bleeding, but he does not stop Lukan, not even when he feels tears on his face that must be the other man’s. When they pull apart, Lukan sits close to him, his head on Jai’s shoulder. They are both covered in blood and Lukan weeps. He weeps into the silence and Jai cannot speak around the lump in his throat.


	14. Book One: Chapter Thirteen

“Jesus,” Malachy says as Jai is lead from the cells out to the reception. “What happened?”

“Broken nose,” Jai mutters, as though it isn’t obvious with his nose splinted and two black eyes coming up nicely.

“No shit. What happened?”

“Not now, kid.”

Malachy mumbles under his breath, but doesn’t say anything else. He does watch though, eyebrows raised, as a few moments later Lukan follows Jai out of the cells. Lukan doesn’t have any visible injuries but he looks terrible and Malachy must surely have noticed that. Jai hadn’t wanted to phone anyone to come and pick them up, but even he could see that Lukan wasn’t fit to get across London on his feet. Truth be told, he couldn’t see himself making it either. Malachy was the best that he could think of.

The boys don’t want to press charges against them and although Jai wants to throttle the lot of them, he’s agreed with Lukan to let it go. That’s the only thing that Lukan has said since they got here. He’s retreated into himself and looks defeated, like the moment the cuffs went on he was just drained of his energy. Jai got off with a warning for attacking the officer, and knows Wiley will rip him a new one when he finds out, but there isn’t time to care about that. Right now, he has to get Lukan away from here.

The clock in Malachy’s car says it is two thirty, and there’s coffee on Jai’s seat. He gives a cup to Lukan, who is huddled in the back seat. Their fingers brush against each other, and Lukan jumps, pulling his hand away. Jai turns back to the front, trying to ignore the burning in his chest. He does not notice that he is flexing his fingers until Malachy reaches over and gently pushes his hand away from where it hovers, in the way, over the gear stick. 

Malachy doesn’t say a word, but then neither does anyone else. The silence is so oppressive that Jai has to open a window just to feel like he can breathe a little easier. Lukan shifts in the backseat, resting his head against his own window, eyes firmly closed and that’s fine, if that is what he wants to do. Jai keeps his eyes on the road and tries not to think of the pain in his nose, or the taste of Lukan’s mouth or the sweet burn of his body finally waking up after so many years of the scraps he’s tried to sate it with. 

The Olympic village is not far from the station that they were taken to, and Malachy pulls up to drop Lukan off with what sounds close to a sigh of relief. Jai feels a stab of guilt at dragging the kid into this at all. It isn’t his mess to sort out, after all.

Malachy stays in the car as Jai gets out, opening Lukan’s door for him. Lukan has roused himself enough to speak.

“Thank you, Malachy. For coming to get us.”

“You’re welcome, man. Take care.”

Lukan climbs out of the car and retreats to a safe distance. Jai follows him; his gaze is caught by Lukan’s gait, lumbering suddenly as though he has a limp, or is dragging a heavy weight. It is not a pleasant look on the man, who is so strong and upright. They round a corner, not to hide from Malachy as such, but to at least be afforded a little privacy. Jai catches Lukan’s hand and is pathetically grateful when the man does not brush him off this time. Instead, Lukan looks down at their joined hands, and then raises them to his mouth. He kisses Jai’s knuckles so gently that Jai feels the prick of tears in his eyes. Tears, when he hasn’t cried for years. What is this man doing to him?

“I’m sorry,” Jai says. “For what happened. I’m sorry.”

“It is not your fault,” Lukan replies, his voice low. “Do not blame yourself.”

They stand for a moment, illuminated by the lamp post on the corner, and Jai sees that Lukan’s usually bright eyes are dull and restless. As the silence stretches on once more, Lukan raises his hand and carefully cups Jai’s cheek, his fingertips brushing through his sideburns. 

“Lukan-”

“Shh now. You should go home. I’m sure you have work tomorrow.”

Jai nods, his throat closing over his words before he can say them, and he wonders if Lukan stopped him because he knew what was coming. It does not matter; Lukan is turning away and with a final glance over his shoulder, he is gone. Jai stands and stares for a moment into the darkness and then goes back to the car. He is exhausted and he aches, and Lukan just walked away from him and he does not know what will happen tomorrow when Wiley finds out what happened. It is too much.

He’s never felt more cursed.

“Come on,” Malachy starts the engine and eases away. “You’re staying at mine tonight.”

Jai doesn’t even have the strength to argue.

Malachy sets him up on the sofa with a pile of cushions and a blanket, hands him a couple of painkillers and a glass of water, before he beats a hasty retreat to his bedroom. Jai has never been here before, but he is not surprised to see the kid spent a lot of money on a decent TV and a games console, or that he has piles of DVDs next to the TV. He is more surprised by the small bookcase in the corner, but doesn’t have the inclination to investigate it. Instead, he passes out before he even has a chance to take his shirt off. 

Jai wakes to a beam of light in the window, and does not know where he is. Then comes the sound of someone moving around a kitchen, a kettle being filled, a toaster popping up. He sits up, his head pounding. His nose aches, and he has a headache so bad he has spots in front of his eyes. Someone has put painkillers and fresh water next to him, and he doubles up on paracetamol and ibuprofen, anything to try and stop it. He cannot stand, but he sits on the edge of the sofa and stares at the TV. 

_Malachy._

As the thought occurs to him, Malachy appears in the kitchen door. He’s in jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, looking far too bright.

“What’s the time?”

“Eleven. Don’t worry, I phoned Wiley. You’re not going in today.”

“He’s going to kill me.”

“Maybe. Drink this.”

Malachy hands him a huge mug of coffee and Jai wraps his hands around it. The flat is warm, but he’s freezing, and the coffee helps to take the edge off a bit. Malachy comes to sit beside him and that helps too.

“What happened, Jai? This isn’t you, man.”

“I don’t know.”

“You do. It’s Lukan, right? You like him?”

The question is so innocent, so casually put, that Jai has nodded before he even realises it. He looks up in horror to see Malachy’s face, only to find mild interest there and nothing more.

“How long have you known?”

“Longer than I knew you were a Reliver,” Malachy shrugs. “No shame in it, man. So what happened?”

Jai is saved from having to answer by the buzz of his phone. He picks it up, expecting a death threat from Wiley, but is surprised to see that it is Lukan. His hand shakes as he opens the message. 

_Jairus, Lukan here. What happened between us – I do not regret it. I do regret what happened afterwards. That was not me. I am not a violent man and I did not like it. I did not like what memories came to me when the police arrived. I am not sure I want to know who I was, if I have memories like that. I am going home today. I have decided it is for the best. I am already at the airport. I hope, my friend, you can forgive my cowardice, but I am not that man anymore and I cannot bear to know him better. Please forgive me._

Jai hands his phone to Malachy for him to read the message, then sinks back into the sofa. He knows now why he feels so cold, when until now he has been burning.

Lukan’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Book One.


	15. Book Two: Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway through, and it is time for a change of pace. 
> 
> I'm glad that many of you are still enjoying this :)

_June 1962_

It had been a hot week at the end of the hottest month that Monique could ever remember, and she wished only for the heat to break enough for her to breathe deeply again. 

She had long grown used to the sweat, both hers and Pierre’s, the clothes of his that he handed to her soaked and stinking at the end of the day. She had never washed so often; his threadbare shirts were barely standing up to the scrubbing, and she wondered how they would afford to replace them once the winter came. She did not think a washing machine would change that, even if they afford to buy one. She would have to worry about that when the time came to worry, and not before.

Monique turned from her place at the kitchen window, where she was watching for Pierre to return, and found that Lukan had crept into the room. She had no concerns for his clothes; once he had been released from school on his holidays, her little son had been dressed in only a pair of shorts for most of his time. His arms and legs were tanned a deep brown, his face only protected a little because she insisted he wore a hat to play out in the sun. 

“Mamma, where is Daddy?”

“On his way home, of course.”

“He’s late and I’m hungry.”

“He isn’t late at all,” she smiled. “But if you’re hungry, I will make you something.”

“Thank you, Mamma.”

He climbed up to the high table, sat on the cushion that was still necessary for him to be able to reach. Lukan was seven now, but still small. His limbs though were strong, very strong, and Monique was not concerned about his stature. He’d grow, in his own good time, and in the meantime his appetite was more than enough to make up for his size. 

She sliced him some cheese and put it in front of him with some bread, and he set to it happily. Monique drifted back to the window. She didn’t want to worry Lukan, but he was in fact right. Pierre was later than usual, although it was not completely unheard of. He worked hard at the farm, and sometimes stayed behind to earn some extra francs. It was not as though they had a telephone for him to tell her when he was running late.

He would come.

Lukan finished his food and came to her side. He couldn’t see out of the window, but he grasped her hand, standing close to her. She glanced down to find him looking up at her, his large brown eyes fixed on hers. He was such a good boy, full of heart, so knowing about other people that she had begun to wonder if he was a Reliver. Pierre said no, that Relivers were bad things, unhappy in their skins, and who did they know more content than their little boy? Monique had agreed but at moments like this, she still wasn’t sure. No child had knowledge like Lukan did. 

And still Pierre did not come.

The darkness did, and Monique took Lukan to his bedroom in the loft. He had been quiet for the last hour or so, eating the dinner she had finally put before him without a question, except to raise his eyebrows when she sat down with only a cup of coffee for herself. She wouldn’t eat until Pierre came home, but Lukan could not wait. 

In the loft, she washed Lukan’s face and hands from the bowl of water that sat in the corner of his room, and turned her back as he put on his pyjamas. He had become self-conscious about that since he turned seven, and insisted on his privacy when he was dressing. Monique did not mind; it was a sign, she thought, that she was raising him well. An independent boy would grow into an independent man, and God knew there were few of those around to make the lives of women easier. 

“Mama, I’m ready.”

She turned and found him settled in bed, the thin cotton blanket draped over his legs. She cocked her head to listen for Pierre at the door and when there was still no sound, she went to Lukan’s side. He gazed up at her, and the face that had been merely interested earlier was now a picture of worry. 

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Still at work,” Monique forced herself to say with more reassurance than she felt. “You’ll see him in the morning, if you wake up early enough.”

“But-”

“Don’t argue now,” she said. 

Her voice must have been harsher than she sounded to her own ears, for Lukan looked as though his face was about to crumple. She reached out a hasty hand and smoothed down his curls. A peace offering. An apology.

“I don’t mean to be cross,” she said, turning her eyes away from Lukan’s face. “Just sleep now. Everything’s fine.”

He didn’t much look as though he believed her, but thankfully he settled down without any more protesting. 

“Goodnight, darling,” Monique said, forcing down the bile that was rising in her throat, “See you tomorrow.”

“Night. Tell Daddy to come and kiss me when he gets home.”

“I will.”

She climbed down the ladder slowly, so that her trembling knees did not give way beneath her. It was nine o’clock. Sometimes Pierre didn’t come home until eight in the summer, picking up a few extra hours in the evening sun, but he usually remembered to let her know he would be late. 

She began to pace the kitchen floor, a cigarette between her fingers. Ash dropped onto the tiles but she just stepped over it and kept pacing. If she didn’t have Lukan asleep upstairs, she would already be marching to the farm, ready to give a piece of her mind to the foreman, or whoever it was keeping Pierre. 

Because, surely, that was why he hadn’t come; someone had given him a job he was too good-natured to turn down, even at the end of a long day when he should be at his table with his dinner. That was always Pierre’s weakness, the only one he had; he was too good. Too polite. Too nice and too easy to manipulate. She’d told him, so many times, to defend himself, to say on occasion, if not for his own sake then for hers or Lukan’s. Pierre would only laugh and kiss her hand, and promise he’d try. 

_Well, he hasn’t tried today,_ Monique thought, pausing only long enough to light another cigarette, _and he will have some explaining to do when he comes back._

She had worked herself into such a fury that she did not hear the click of the latch on the gate, though she was listening for it. When the knock on the door came, she dropped her cigarette and had to stamp it out. 

“Where have you been?” she asked, tearing the door open. “Your dinner was –”

Her words died in her mouth. It wasn’t Pierre at the door. It was the foreman, his cap between his hands, and Laurent, Pierre’s best friend. Laurent’s head was bowed but she saw – she saw the tears on his face and the next thing she knew, she was on the floor. Someone was screaming and she turned her head blindly – _Lukan_ – until Laurent’s face appeared before her and he held her face in his hands.

“Monique,” he begged, and his voice was far away. “Please. Don’t scream. You’ll wake Lukan.”

Then she was swept into a pair of arms – not Pierre’s arms – and carried to the sofa. She blinked through hazy eyes. It was the foreman, his face aghast, who had picked her up and he laid her down before he retreated quickly. Laurent took his place and clutched at her hand. 

“I’m sorry,” he wept. “I’m sorry. He – oh God. Pierre had – he got trapped – oh, Monique. He’s dead. I’m sorry.”

She already knew. She had known from the moment Lukan stood at her side and asked where Pierre was. Lukan knew things, he always had and now he was right. He was so right, and she was going to be sick. 

She got to her feet, stumbled to the sink and emptied her stomach, then sank once more to her knees. She was shaking so much that she could not have stood even if she had the strength. Once more, the foreman, who had not said a word, picked her up and laid her down. She turned her face to the cushion and screamed, screamed until her throat hurt, and Laurent’s hand on her back rubbed circles that felt like fire.

Then came a creak of the floorboards and a small voice, thick with tears.

“Daddy’s gone, isn’t he?”

Laurent said something and then it was Lukan screaming, and Monique sat up. She reached for him blindly and he found her, pressed his hot face to her neck, and they rocked. She thought of her husband and she rocked her son, the only thing she had left.


	16. Book Two: Chapter One

“Easy, Maxie!” Lukan called, watching the trainer dance around the ring. “Let up!”

Maxie grinned and let his hands drop to his sides. His opponent, a young boxer named Toni, gasped and leaned against the ropes. Maxie had been working him hard, and Lukan could see the boy was tiring. He didn’t want to push too much; Toni was only a kid, really, but he had some promise and Lukan didn’t want to scare him off. 

“You did well,” he said, climbing into the ring and clapping Toni on the shoulder. “Do you feel good?”

“Yeah,” Toni nodded. “Really good.”

“Take a break. Get a drink. Maxie, let’s talk.”

Maxie patted Toni on the back and cleared the ropes with a single jump, rolling into a landing and up to his feet. Lukan shook his head, but smiled. Maxie needed a short leash.

“He’s good,” he said, as soon as the door to Lukan’s office was closed behind them.

“I thought so,” Lukan sat down at his desk and rested his chin on his hands. “He’ll need gentle handling.”

“Can do,” Maxie pulled off his gloves and threw them onto the sofa. “He can train with Jojo. He’ll look after him.”

“Good. Is there space for him in the dormitory? The sooner he’s out of that flat, the better.”

“Another one of your lost boys, huh?”

“You saw the bruises just as well as I did,” Lukan sighed.

“I’ll find him a bed. No worries.”

Maxie swept up his gloves and left the room. He was a livewire and no easy man to work with, but he had a good heart, and Lukan had never found reason to doubt him. 

From outside in the gym, he heard the rhythm of gloves on bags start up, and the chatter of voices running underneath it. It was a Saturday morning and the gym was busy. So many kids came to the gym now that Lukan could barely keep up with the names and the faces. He tried, of course. No youngster would come to his gym and feel like they didn’t matter, not if he could help it. That was the whole point of the gym after all, the point of the foundation that helped to fund it. No one was ever turned away. 

The day was hot, for March, and Lukan shrugged out of his jacket. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and fished around in his bottom drawer. He pulled out his workout shorts and changed into them, before heading back out of the office. He didn’t feel much like sitting down. 

Instead, he made his way around the gym, stopping to correct a posture here, put in a kind word there. The youngest kids, some of them no older than six or seven, were supervised by the older ones as part of the training programme, but not all the teens were great at teaching. Some were; Luke was particularly pleased with Angelique, who had a natural flair for coaching, and really enjoyed working with the little ones. Lukan tried to encourage it as much as he could. The next generation of teachers was high on his list of priorities. 

He made his way over to Angelique, who was leading a small group in warm up. They clutched their skipping ropes and tried to keep up as she effortlessly skipped with her own. 

“Good, petite!” she called, nodding to a tiny girl at the edge of the group. “Really good!”

The girl blushed and skipped faster, a broad grin on her face. Lukan didn’t interfere until Angelique had finished. 

“Good morning, everyone. How are you all?”

The kids mumbled and shuffled their feet. They all knew who he was, of course. He wondered what stories they had been told this time. 

“Hey guys,” Angelique spoke loudly behind her hand. “It’s only old man Lukan. You don’t need to be shy. It’s me you should be scared of!”

The kids giggled and Lukan pretended to cuff Angelique behind the ear. She dodged and poked her tongue out, and the kids laughed louder. 

“Please go away, we’re very busy,” she said. “Unless you want to take me on, old man?”

Lukan put his hands up and left them to it. Angelique was sixteen years old and already a better teacher than he would ever be. 

He finished his rounds, stopping to watch for a few moments as Toni worked the bag at Maxie’s side, then went back to the office. There was paperwork to be done, as always, and he’d been neglecting it lately. It had been difficult to find his focus since – well, since London. Since the dreams had started. Since he’d met Jairus and his entire life had turned on its head. It was hard to sleep; not only did the dreams wake him in the middle of the night, wild and confusing dreams, but there was also the guilt. The guilt he could not shake, the feeling that he owed Jairus something and he had run away instead of trying to give it to him. 

But it wasn’t as simple as all that. He remembered too the way that Jairus had kissed him, and how it was right. Just right, when so little in his life had been, and how that was almost the most frightening thing of all. 

Despite that, the paperwork did not end, and the foundation could not be neglected at all. So many people depended on him; not just the boxers that he was coaching to the international stage, or his trainers, but all of the youngsters who lived in the dormitories, who came to train at his gym and who trusted him to make their lives better. When he had set up the foundation with the money from his first major win, he had never expected it to grow the way that it had. His plan had been to help one kid, maybe two if he was lucky, but it had snowballed and with the money he had been bequeathed by Monsieur de Ville, he’d been able to make a real difference to so many lives. But with that came the pressure and the dilemma; if he paid fewer administration staff and did the work himself, he would save more money for the kids, but it also meant he has less time for coaching. 

At some point during the day, the chattering of small voices turned into the raucous laughter of his older ones, and Maxie poked his head in the door in the afternoon. 

“Found Toni a spot in the dorm, boss,” he said. “He can move in tomorrow, if he wants. Jojo is gonna keep an eye on him.”

“Thank you,” Lukan said, resting his forehead in his hands as he gazed down at the papers in front of him. “Everyone alright out there?”

“Fine. You okay?”

“I’m just tired. It’s been a long few weeks.”

“Long few months, more like. You’ve been weird since you came back from London. What the fuck did they do to you over there?”

Maxie was looking at him when Lukan glanced up, his eyes bright but narrow, and Lukan did not know what to tell him. It was not the first time they’d had this conversation since July, and in the end the answer was always the same, and it was always a lie. 

“Nothing happened. Go and look after the kids.”


	17. Book Two: Chapter Two

_The sun is hot on his back, burning, and he trembles. He trembles under the weight of the man he is carrying, and the air tastes of salt and he cannot breathe. He is so hot that he cannot breathe and he drops the man from across his shoulders to the dusty ground._

__

__

_A shout then, a hand drags his head up by the hair. A face. A face that he knows, or knew, atop a uniform of blue, and then the sharp sting of a slap to his cheek and he falls to the ground._

Lukan woke with a start and groaned, turning his face into the pillow that he was clutching so tightly, it had begun to tear in two. The pillow was damp with sweat and after a moment, he tossed it away. 

Lukan rolled onto his back and picked up his phone. It was dark outside, still early. Half past four. Right on cue. The dreams always woke him at half past four, almost without fail. He could hardly understand it. The dream didn’t matter – it could be any one of them – but always that time. He didn’t dare to think too much on it, no more than he truly dared to think on the dreams themselves. What was he supposed to think? They were different, but always there was that man, the man with the fierce face and sad eyes who haunted him and did not let him rest. When he awoke, Lukan could hardly remember him, but in sleep he never failed to know him. 

And the things he suffered at the hands of the man – the humiliation, the pain – but still he felt as though there was more. Something more, and he’d only know it if he reached out a hand to take it. But then he woke, at half past four, and it was gone again 

Lukan lay awake, listening to the early morning movement on the streets below his window. Paris was never quiet; that was a fact he had learned the hard way in his youth, but he did not mind it so much these days. It was reassuring to hear the sounds of life and know that the dreams were, in the end, only dreams. 

He dozed a little while, did not dream again, and when Bella called him at eight, he thought that he sounded almost himself when he answered. 

“Come for breakfast,” Bella said. “I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

“Good morning,” Lukan sat up and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. The skin prickled as though it had been burned. 

“Good morning. Come for breakfast. I’ll cook.”

“Alright.”

“Ten. Don’t be late.”

Lukan got ready slowly. He stood for a long time in the shower, resting his forehead against the cool tiles. He was so tired, and when he closed his eyes, he could see Jairus, the way that he always looked as though he hadn’t slept for days, the dark circles beneath his eyes, and how none of that had seemed important when he had given Lukan that small, wry smile. Growling, Lukan brought his fist to the wall and banged it against the tiles.

_Christ, he’d fucked up. ___

__Bella did not live very far away, and he decided to walk rather than take the subway. The freshness of the Sunday morning woke him. He had found a new appreciation for being outside, walking on his own two feet, free to wander as he pleased. The dreams seemed further away when he walked with the breeze on his face._ _

__“You look awful,” Bella said, by way of greeting. “You walked here like that? I’m surprised you didn’t scare any old ladies.”_ _

__“Thanks,” Lukan squeezed past her and went into the kitchen. Something that smelled good was bubbling away on the stove top and Bella had already put a pot of coffee on the breakfast bar. Lukan didn’t ask, just helped himself, whilst Bella stared at him, her arms crossed._ _

__“Well, where have you been?”_ _

__“I’ve been at the gym, at home. I haven’t been anywhere you wouldn’t be able to find me.”_ _

__Bella scoffed and finally moved to sit and pour herself a cup._ _

__“And where has your head been, Lukan?”_ _

__Lukan flinched at her tone, and felt all of the mutinous rage drown out of him. He shook his head._ _

__“If I knew that, I’d tell you.”_ _

__“Huh.”_ _

__They sat quietly, listening to the bubbling of the pan and the murmur of Bella’s radio from somewhere else in the flat. Lukan’s hands were tight around the cup and he tried to loosen them. He’d let Bella down, he knew it. When he’d come back from London, she had tried to help him, like any best friend would, but Lukan had snapped at her and run, and he hadn’t seen her since. And now, she had reached out and he didn’t even have any answers for her._ _

__“I’m sorry,” he said. “For what I said. You didn’t deserve it.”_ _

__“No, I didn’t,” Bella said coolly. “But I am prepared to forgive you, if you just tell me what’s going on. You mentioned someone before. A guy in London? It’s this Reliving thing, right?”_ _

__He’d forgotten how much he had been able to tell her, before he lost his temper, and so all he had to do was nod._ _

__“I’ve been doing some reading, since you mentioned it. I’d heard of it, you know, but I don’t think I ever really believed that it was real.”_ _

__“It’s real,” he said._ _

__“No shit,” Bella pushed back her chair and went to the oven. “Tell me again.”_ _

__So he did, whilst she served up eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms, with thick slices of bread, and put the plate down in front of him._ _

__“So this guy, Jairus – super cool name by the way – he’s the key for you, to whatever this is? And you’re the key for him?”_ _

__“It seems like it. He’s suffered his whole life with it. He can remember before this life too, at least one more where he spent his whole life looking for me.”_ _

__“Wow. Poor man.”_ _

__“And I just ran away from him,” Lukan sighed, putting his head in his hands. “The closest he had ever come to some peace, and I left him. That’s why I feel so terrible.”_ _

__“Uh huh,” Bella said, spreading butter thickly on her bread. “And the other reason too.”_ _

__Lukan looked up sharply. Bella took a huge bite of her bread, nonchalant as though she hadn’t even spoken, but when she raised an eyebrow, he knew what she had meant._ _

__“Am I that obvious?”_ _

__“Only to me, Lukey,” she said, patting his hand. “Is he hot? You can tell me.”_ _

__Lukan blushed._ _

__“Not – probably not. Not in the usual way. But he’s got his intensity about him and –”_ _

___And he kissed me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered._ _ _

__“Alright, alright,” Bella grinned. “Stop before you hurt yourself. So you’ve made this all harder for yourself by deciding he’s the first man you’re interested in for the last ten years?”_ _

__It felt good to laugh. Bella had always been able to make him laugh, and he started then, because she was right, of course. Bella was always right, and it was ridiculous._ _

__“You know I said I’ve been reading?” Bella asked later, when they were sat with more coffee. “I found this obscure journal online, some American website. It said that they’d had some success teaching Relivers how to lucid dream. You know, like when people can control their dreams?”_ _

__Lukan nodded, and she carried on. “Well, these people. They learned how to lucid dream, and once they could do it, some of them could talk to the people in their dreams. Like they were talking to their memories, and a couple even figured out what they needed to do.”_ _

__“It sounds interesting,” Lukan said. “But I don’t know how to do that.”_ _

__“I knew you’d say that,” Bella pulled some folded pieces of paper towards her and handed them to him. He unfolded them and read the title._ _

__“Teach Yourself Lucid Dreaming.”_ _

__“I’m sceptical too. But people are pretty adamant you can learn to do it. So maybe it’s worth a shot? I want my friend back. This isn’t you.”_ _

__Lukan swallowed around the lump in his throat, and lifted her hand to his mouth to kiss it. She cuffed him gently around the ear and grinned._ _

__“We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone.”_ _


	18. Book Two: Chapter Three

_The salt is thick on his tongue and the chains are heavy._

_He is in a line of men, manacled at the ankles and the wrists, and they shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. The sound of the sea fills his ears and it is so hot that he can hardly breathe. Then shouts, and a man near the front of the line has fallen, and someone – a guard, it must be a guard – is screaming at him._

_The line halts. A crack through the air. A whip. The man sobs and Lukan tries to see. He cannot. He looks at his feet and then at his hands. Curious. His hands do not look like his own, and something tickles at the back of his mind. He takes his finger and tries to push it through his palm, and it goes straight through._

_A dream!_

_He is dreaming._

_This is a dream._

_He begins to shout. His voice sounds strange in his ears, but he remembers. This is a dream._

_“Where am I?” he shouts. “Where?”_

_A guard runs down the line. He knows this face. He has seen it before._

_“Where am I?”_

_“You know,” the guard growls. “Why would you ask?”_

_“But-“_

_“Shut up!” the guard yells, frantic, and Lukan is sure he knows that voice. “Shut up now!”_

_Then the crack of a whip and his back is burning and he falls, falling, he is falling._

And he still wakes at half past four. 

Half past four, every morning without fail. The men in his dreams could not answer him. They would not answer him, no matter the questions he asked, and as the days passed Lukan began to fear he was going mad. 

“Boss, you listening to me?”

Lukan’s head jerked up and he saw Maxie gazing at him, an unusually thoughtful look on his face, and had to shake his head.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you. Tell me again.”

Maxie leaned back in his chair and bit at his fingernails, his eyes never leaving Lukan’s face.

“I was talking about the kids. Jojo says Toni is a lot happier.”

“Toni, yes,” Lukan looked down at the papers on his desk. “And have we got everything sorted for New York?”

“Been done for ages. You know that.”

Maxie sounded reproachful, and Lukan could hardly blame him. The man had never let him down before, never left a flight unbooked or a form not filled in, and there was no reason he should have started now. An awkward silence hung between them, and Lukan’s nerves snapped.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Max. I don’t appreciate it.”

Maxie got to his feet and slammed the door on the way out. Lukan’s stomach turned and he almost vomited, acid forcing up his throat. He swallowed it down and stumbled to his feet. He needed to go after Maxie to apologise for – for being absent, for letting him think he didn’t trust him, for speaking to him like he was nothing.

The gym was busy with the little ones at their training, and Lukan tried to melt into the background, his head ringing with the sound of their chatter. He found Maxie in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. The man eyed him speculatively, then sighed. 

“Want a coffee?”

“Please.”

He told him, as much as he could, in the end, over the large cups of coffee that Maxie liked, made so strong that it made Lukan’s teeth ache. Maxie was quiet and just listened, nodding. That was unnerving enough, but Lukan could hardly blame him, and at least he was listening. 

“No wonder your head’s been all over the place,” Maxie muttered. 

Luke looked down into his mug and didn’t flinch when Maxie put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. Too gently, because Lukan felt tears prickle at his eyes and he wiped them away harshly.

“Don’t make me cry. That’s the last thing I need.”

Maxie was about to speak, Lukan was sure, when there came a scream from the gym. They leapt to their feet and rushed out to see two of the kids grappling on the floor, surrounded by a crowd of their friends. Angelique was trying to split them up, but the boys were not to be separated.

“Enough!” Maxie roared, pushing through the crowd and lifting one of the boys bodily by his collar. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The other boy scrambled to his feet, his face red. Lukan hung back, allowing one of the small girls to cling to his hand, but saying nothing. He didn’t know these boys, two more who had slipped through the net lately, and they weren’t likely to listen to him over Maxie.

“What happened?” Maxie asked. “Javier? What is this about?”

Javier.

_Javier._

That name.

Lukan dropped the hand he was holding and made it to his office before his legs gave way. He sank to his knees, the name ringing in his ears, and for a moment he was dreaming again – the salt on his lips, the sun on his back and someone was shouting a name.

Javert!

And he realised the voice, the voice screaming, was his own.

_Javert!_

Darkness. Night. Gunpowder smell and blood on his hands and still he was screaming. And before he fainted, the flash of a face and he knew it, he finally knew it. The face and the name on his lips – Javert – 

“Old Man!”

Lukan came around on the floor of his office. Angelique was shaking his shoulder. She was pale, her eyes wide, and Lukan groaned. He tried to sit up, but she wouldn’t let him. 

“Stay there a bit. Maxie said you have to stay there.”

She put a folded jacket under his head and gave him a glass of water.

“Maxie’s sorting out the kids,” she said, her voice high. “Don’t worry, none of them saw what happened. He’s sending them home now.”

Lukan nodded and closed his eyes. He could hardly remember what had happened, not exactly, except –

“Was I screaming?”

“Yeah. You kept saying ‘Javert’. What’s that? I’ve never heard that word before.”

“Javert? I think he was someone I used to know. A long time ago.”

Angelique patted his hand. She was too young to be dealing with this. When Maxie finally came and told her to go, she was out of the door so fast that Lukan knew she’d been feeling it too.

Maxie called him a taxi and put him in it, and Lukan made it back to his bed before he fell into a restless sleep. 

Javert.

_Javert._

He didn’t know what it meant. Only that, finally, he had something to hold onto. 

When he woke, late in the afternoon, he’d sweated through his shirt, twisted up in his bedclothes. He stripped naked and went to the bathroom. He didn’t have the strength to stand, so ran the bath and eased himself into it.

_Javert._

He lay in the water until it went cold, turning the name over in his mind. It was important and he needed to know why. It could be the key and he had it, more than Jairus had ever held in his hand and the cold water cleared his mind. He needed to find out what it meant. 

He got out of the bath and dressed. In the kitchen, he made a pot of tea and opened his laptop on the breakfast bar. He typed Javert into the search engine.

No results, nothing that mattered anyway. 

He growled low in his throat and closed the lid. He could hardly have expected it to be that easy, but it still felt like a dead end. He sipped his tea and picked up his phone. 

“Yo,” Bella answered on the third ring. “Two phone calls in two weeks. I’m honoured.”

“I need to do some research and I don’t know how to start,” he said, lifting a hand to massage his forehead. “I think I – I think I’ve remembered something important.”

Whatever Bella was holding hit the counter and he heard her sit down. 

“No way! That’s great.”

“Can you help me? I tried the internet but I don’t know what I’m looking for. And my head – I can hardly think. My head hurts so much.”

“I’ve got this,” she said, her voice full. “Tell me.”

“I think it’s a name. I remember ‘Javert’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bank holidays are no good for me - I lose all track of what day it is and miss important things like my Sunday update...


	19. Book Two: Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, _someone_ is doing something sensible with their time...

Two days later, Lukan found himself in a bustling coffee shop, with Bella sat across from him. She had a notebook open in front of her, filled with scribbles he couldn’t read. Probably one of her invented short hands.

“I’ve been looking,” she said. “And I can’t find anything about the name ‘Javert’. The closest thing I can find is a bastardised spelling of the Spanish name, Xavier, which is apparently something Romani.”

Her face was serious, but her voice excited, and Lukan nodded. The rising edge in her voice was grating at the edges of his nerves, but he didn’t say so. She was his best chance at figuring it out, after all, and he could hardly blame her for enjoying the hunt. This was her thing, after all.

“The good thing about this is that it is so rare a word that if we do find it, I think we’ll have a higher than average chance that we have found the right thing.”

Lukan nodded again and took a sip of his coffee.

“So tell me,” she said, her pen poised above the page. “However painful it is, tell me every single detail that you can remember.”

So he did, there in the warmth and bright lights of the coffee shop, chosen by Bella to help him feel relaxed and safe, far away from the dreams he was describing. He told her it all; about the prison by the sea. The chain on his foot. His red shirt, the man in blue. He told her about the alleyway, the whisper of the river, the smell of gunpowder and the shots in the night, the screams and the line of bodies on the floor. He even told her of the girl, with blonde hair and the face of an angel, who reaches for him in the dream and never quite finds him. His hands shook and his head pounded but Bella held his hand and wrote with her other, and although he could hardly breathe by the time they were done, at least it was done. 

“You did so well, Lukey,” she kissed his hand. “And I’m gonna find it. I promise.”

That night he dreamed and this time the man in blue had Jairus’ face. Lukan tried to speak to him, but the man only said what he had before - _Why would you ask?_. And still Lukan woke, half past four, and he worried that the only thing Bella would find was that he was going mad. 

The next day, she called him whilst he was at work. He shooed some kids out of the office and picked up the phone. 

“I’ve found him,” she said immediately. “At least I think so. I’ve found Javert.”

Lukan hung up the phone without speaking. He couldn’t even begin to ask her what she done, the magic she could conjure up from nowhere when she had a problem to solve. Instead he flung on his jacket and went to her flat. She answered the door with a huge grin on her face and pulled him inside. She looked as though she hadn’t slept, but bounced on her toes anyway. 

“Sit down. I’ll get my stuff.”

She gave him a mug of coffee and put her notebook down on the table with a pile of papers. He eyed them, but didn’t say a word as she began to leaf through them. 

“So I looked into the prison by the sea first. That was quite easy to find out about. Have you ever heard of Toulon?”

He did not think that he had, but the word was enough to make his hands twitch around his mug. Lukan looked down at his knuckles, white against the black china, and he tried to loosen them. Bella hadn’t noticed, or if she had, she didn’t say so. 

“It was a prison. Opened in 1749, apparently, instead of putting criminals on the galleys. They wore red smocks – the prisoners – and chains on their ankles. And the guards wore blue. I think – are you alright?”

Lukan nodded, because he couldn’t speak. Goosebumps had shot up his arms and neck, and he could feel himself trembling as she spoke. Bella put down her papers and eased his hands from around the mug he was still clutching. He could hardly breathe, but he clung to her.

“Am I going too fast?” she asked. “Tell me and we can stop.” 

“No –” he choked. “Please. Keep going.”

She didn’t look convinced, but nodded slowly. 

“Well, anyway, I think that the place you’re dreaming of. It’s Toulon. And that means –”

“I was a prisoner,” he said.

“Maybe. We don’t know for sure. These dreams could mean anything.”

He didn’t argue with her. He didn’t have the breath for it, and it wasn’t worth doing. He just needed to hear what she had to say and then he could – what? There would be no peace in knowing who he had been, unless he could fix the mistake he had made. Was the mistake the reason he had been in prison? What if he had deserved the punishment, and he’d only find out too late that fixing the mistake was the worst thing he could be trying to do? Perhaps this had been a terrible idea. Perhaps he would have been better off not knowing and – 

“The other part was harder to find,” Bella said, cutting through his racing thoughts. “But a barricade. Bodies lining the street. The only thing that makes sense, Lukey, is the June Rebellion.”

Now _that_ he had heard of. 

“That’s when – were they students?”

Bella nodded.

“Yep. They failed, bless them. Two days of barricades and guns and they all died in the end. So I thought if you were dreaming of that – assuming that your dreams are set in Paris like you said – it would be 1832. So then I started looking at the newspaper archives in the library, which took bloody hours by the way, and I found something.”

“What?” Lukan asked, shaking her hand. 

“Have you had enough for today? We can talk about this-”

“Please. Now.”

“I found the name,” she said, “In an article a week after the rebellion. Javert was a police inspector.”

_Javert._

“What did it say?” Lukan asked, his head aching from the details. Bella pushed a photocopy towards him. An old article. The type was small and he had to squint to read it.

It was an article.

But it was also an obituary. 

His head pounded as he read, further and further, of how the policeman had died with no explanation, pitched himself off a bridge and that was all they really knew. Lukan was in no doubt, by the time he read the whole thing, that he had seen this article before. 

His stomach twisted and he leapt to his feet, heaving into the kitchen bin as his mind span with the name of Javert, and the certainty that this man was Jairus, and surely the mistake had been to throw himself into the Seine. But then where did he come into it? If that was the mistake, it made sense that perhaps his had been not to prevent it. But who had he been? His mind was silent on the matter and he could not make it speak.

But Javert! 

It was him. He was certain, deep in his bones, that Bella had found the right man. And the poor wretch had killed himself and no one knew why. But it was wrong. Jairus would not be reliving it if it wasn’t so wrong. 

“Cough it up,” Bella said, patting his back as he hung over the bin. “You’ve had a shock.”

He stumbled past her and went to lay down on the sofa, a hand pressed over his eyes. He heard Bella empty the bin and go out to throw it away, then the next thing he knew she was pressing a glass of water into his hand. He sat up to sip it, then collapsed back down.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

“No problem,” she said, smoothing his hair back from his sweaty forehead. “But you know what this means, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, because he’d already thought of it, had been thinking of it for days and weeks and months. “I have to talk to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No update next week as I'm going away, see ya in two weeks :D


	20. Book Two: Chapter Five

He tried three times to call Jairus before he found his nerve. Bella tried to make him do it on that day, but he just couldn’t. He needed time to think, time to consider what he was going to say that wouldn’t sound completely mad. Not that he didn’t think Jairus wouldn’t believe him – he was sure the man was desperate enough to believe anything that could help him – but Lukan needed to know that he’d make sense at least when he was trying to explain it. 

He didn’t want Jairus to think either that he hadn’t done enough to help himself over the years, when Lukan had got closer to the truth so quickly, in such a short amount of time. In truth, Jairus was a miracle. That he had lived so long, suffering the way that he did, was more impressive than anything Lukan had done. 

And then there was the simple fact that he was scared. Bella had been more than right about one thing. Jairus was the first man Lukan had been interested in for years, and he had almost forgotten the feeling. The nerves, the racing heart, the rush of blood to the head. 

Almost a year since he had seen him, but it didn’t seem to have made any difference to how he felt when he thought of him. How Jairus’ lips had felt, his hands on his hips, and how the Reliving seemed so very far away in that moment in the alley. It had been just the two of them, as they were, with no history at their backs and it had been enough. If they had not been disturbed – Lukan knew what would have happened next, and he could not even bring himself to be ashamed. It would have been right, even there in that hidden corner, even where anyone could see them, and wasn’t that the most frightening thing of all?

The first time he tried to call, he sat in his office at the gym and willed himself to pick up his phone and just do it. He’d decided the office would be the best place; it would be like just another work call, just another thing to get crossed off his never-ending list. It might have even been alright if one of the kids hadn’t come into the room, carefully carrying a cup of coffee that he placed proudly on Lukan’s desk. 

Lukan hastily ended the call and put his phone into his pocket. His heart pounded as though he had been discovered doing something illicit, and he forced himself to smile at the boy. It wasn’t his fault, after all. 

“Thank you, Javi,” he said. “I needed this.”

The beaming smile the boy gave him was almost worth the missed opportunity to get the job done.

He didn’t try to call Jairus again for almost a week after that. He kept putting it off, ignoring Bella’s texts asking if he’d done it, throwing himself into the gym. They were going to a showcase in New York in a month, and while he had been neglecting it of late, Maxie had been working harder than ever to run the gym and prepare the kids for the trip. He hadn’t said anything, but Lukan caught him watching him sometimes, and he wondered how much longer he could rely on Maxie’s good humour to last. 

So he worked hard in the gym, got back to the training that he had loved so much at the start. They were taking some of the older kids with them on the trip, to give them a taste of what their futures could be, and so they could cheer on their hero, Lukan’s champion, Isaac Stern. Isaac lived in America now he was a big name, but he’d never forgotten his roots. He’d been the one that Lukan was at the Olympics with last year, and it was thinking about Isaac and the euphoria of his win in London that eventually made Lukan pick up his phone for the second time. 

He was drunk, when he did it. At home, on his couch, and he drank a bottle of wine to try and make himself brave enough to do it. It was late, but he was sure that Jairus would be awake, and he got as far as holding the ringing phone to his ear. He felt sick to his stomach, which could have been the wine, he supposed, and when the call went to the voicemail, he couldn’t say that he wasn’t relieved. And then he opened another bottle of wine, because he didn’t know what else to do.

The next day, he woke up with a hangover to the sound of someone pounding on the front door. He groaned and tried to ignore it, but the noise was never-ending. He rolled out of bed and into a pair of shorts. Stumbling down the hallway, he thought about detouring to the bathroom to be sick, but made it to the door instead – anything to stop the noise. 

Bella was standing there, two coffees and a paper bag in her hand. 

“You look like shit,” she said. “Rough night?”

He didn’t answer her. The smell from the paper bag was enough to tip him over the edge and he barely made it to the toilet before he threw up. 

“Charming,” Bella said, as she walked past the open door. “I’ll just make myself at home till you’re in a fit state.”

Lukan stayed a while on his knees, hands pressed to the cool tiles of the floor, before he dragged himself into the shower. Fifteen minutes sat under the water helped to clear his head a little, and he found that his legs supported him again when he tried to stand up. 

In the kitchen, Bella was busy cleaning his sink, and he flushed. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Just entertaining myself,” she said, rinsing away the suds and throwing down her sponge.

“And what about you?” she said, as he sank into a chair at the tiny table. “What happened?”

“Got drunk, tried to call him, went to voicemail, got more drunk.”

“Alright,” she said, putting his coffee in front of him. “I warmed this in the microwave. Drink it, and then we are going to try again. I’ll stay right here with you.”

She was as good as her word, forcing his phone into his hand as soon as the last mouthful of coffee had gone down his neck. He tried to focus on the screen and not on her watching him, bringing up Jairus’ number and dialling it.

It rang and rang, almost as long as it had the night before, and he was getting ready for the robotic voicemail, when there was a click and the sound of a breath being drawn.

_Oh shit._

“Lukan?”

Jairus’ voice was rough, probably as rough as his own sounded, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Lukan could see Bella gesturing furiously out of the corner of his eye, and he turned away. 

“Hello, Jairus.”

More silence.

“What do you want?” Jairus asked, and there was the unmistakeable creak of a bed as he moved. 

“Did I wake you?” 

“No. What do you want?”

What did he want? He wanted to apologise, for running away like he did. He wanted to tell Jairus about the dreams, about how he woke every night at the same damn time and it was driving him mad. He wanted to tell him what Bella had found and he wanted to tell him that he had missed him, or thought that he might have been missing him. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he wanted. 

“I – I want you to come here. To Paris.”

A pause.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Jairus sounded more surprised that irritable, which was a good sign, but Lukan didn’t know what he was going to say next. He hadn’t expected to issue an invitation, that was for sure.

“I think that I might – I might be a step closer to working all of this out. You and me. And Paris is important. So you should come.”

More silence, and then the worst sound of all as Jairus hung up and the line went dead. 

Lukan blinked hard, staring at the phone in his hand. Jairus didn’t want to know. Could he blame him, with how he had just run away when the man had opened himself up to him? And then to phone him after a year, when he hadn’t spoken to him since, and ask him to drop what he was doing and come to see him? Lukan put his face in his hands, fingernails digging into his forehead and thankfully Bella decided not to speak, because he would only have screamed at her if she had tried.

Then his phone began to ring, vibrating across the table, and he looked up to see Bella snatch it and hand it to him. She smiled gently and he glanced at the screen. 

_Jairus._

“Hello?”

“I’ll come,” Jairus growled. “This had better be bloody important.”


	21. Book Two: Chapter Six

It all happened quickly, quicker than Lukan would have imagined. Jairus said that he had a lot of holiday that he didn’t tend to use, and he was sure that his boss would let him have some time at short notice. When he sent a message on the Thursday to say that he would be arriving on Saturday morning, Lukan went into a state of semi-panic. 

The first thing to deal with was the gym.

“Just for a week or two,” he told Maxie, when the man asked him how long he was going to be away. 

Maxie leaned back in his chair, chewing on the string of his hoodie. He looked worried, his brow low, and Lukan could hardly blame him. In three weeks, they were going to New York. _Supposed_ to be going to New York. 

“And you think you’ll sort yourself out for good?” Maxie asked, his eyes sharp on Lukan’s face. “You might be back to normal after this?”

“I don’t know for sure,” he replied. “But I have to try.”

A moment more of silence, and then Maxie nodded. He got to his feet and shook Lukan’s hand. 

“I’ll text you every day. And if I need to call you, I can call you, yeah?”

“Of course,” Lukan rose to meet him, light with relief that the man was being so understanding when he had already had his patience pushed to the limit over the previous year. “If you need me, Maxie, I’ll be here. You know that.”

That problem solved, knowing his kids were in better hands than his right now, Lukan could turn to the next one. His flat was in a bit of a state, and he needed to try and make it welcoming at least. He remembered Jairus’ small flat, how tidy and clean it had been, and knew that he didn’t want the man to think he always lived in such a mess.

On the Friday morning, he went out early and stocked up on cleaning supplies. He bought new toothbrushes too, and a pack of razors. He wasn’t sure what Jairus would bring with him, and he wanted to be able to offer things if they were needed. As a last minute addition, he bought a new towel as well. It might be nice, to show Jairus that he did put some thought into his visit and how to make it as pleasant as he could. 

Back at home, he set to work first on the kitchen. The dishes seemed a good place to start, and at least he could switch his mind off whilst he was doing them. A small stack of them had multiplied, overnight almost, into a very large stack and he couldn’t even remember why he hadn’t done them. He’d been tired, certainly, and he was so stressed that he could feel it like a constant pounding in his skull, but that was really no excuse to live like an animal. Jairus didn’t let himself go, if his clean flat and impeccable appearance was any evidence, and Lukan resolved to do better. No matter what this visit might bring, no matter what might happen. He’d try to be better, to _deal_ better with it all than he was.

After the washing up, he worked slowly through the flat for the rest of the day, scrubbing until his hands were red and the dust he was stirring up from under the furniture was making him cough. When he at last got the guest room, he had to stop. It had been so long since he had someone to stay that the room didn’t even have a bed in it, just a fold-out couch that he had never had to fold-out. It was strange now that Jairus would be the one who slept here first, and he could not tell if it was the dust or the thought of him under his roof that was making his skin feel itchy. 

He vacuumed the room and looked for a place to store the junk that he tended to throw on the couch. In the end, the couch solved the problem. He managed to work out how to fold it into a bed, and shoved all of the boxes underneath it, hoping that Jairus wouldn’t be too curious and start poking around. Lukan’s spare sheets and pillows were just about passable for a guest to sleep on, and he made the bed so it at least didn’t look too much a like a couch. He imagined Jairus here, sleeping on this bed, and then his mind wandered, to his own room and his own bed. Maybe – but no, he shouldn’t think like that. But maybe, they wouldn’t end up using this room at all. 

He blushed at his own thoughts betraying him and threw himself into finishing the cleaning, then went back out to the supermarket to get enough food to last them a few days. He didn’t really know what Jairus liked to eat, but he remembered that he’d seemed to like the cheese and the meats that Lukan had taken to him when he was ill. Bread and olives, and things like that would suit them both well enough to start with. They could always go out if Jairus wanted more, but Lukan didn’t think that he’d be very interested in that. He had been uncomfortable at the bar when they’d gone drinking, after all. 

Lukan’s mind raced with all of those thoughts, all day, and when he collapsed into bed, exhausted, he fell asleep more quickly than he had done in months. 

_The street again._

_The smell of gunpowder and the blood on the street and the man is there._

_The man he is sure he knows now._

_And they run, through the streets, and Lukan feels a weight on his shoulders but he does not seem to be carrying anything, and then he is falling and the man is still running and Lukan cries out but the man doesn’t stop. He runs, and Lukan shouts and then –_

It was half past four, and he was awake, panting on sheets damp with his sweat. 

Jairus couldn’t get to him soon enough. 

Ten o’clock found him at the Gare du Nord, waiting for the arrival of the Eurostar that was carrying Jairus from London. The train was late, and he wandered over to one of small booths to buy himself a coffee before he sat down to wait for it. The girl behind the counter smiled at him as she handed over his change, and he smiled back. Coffee and the sound of trains and the smiles of strangers were grounding, when so little of his life felt like it was his own. He wondered what grounded Jairus, if anything did. 

The station was busy, and he watched the people around him. The Gare du Nord tended to be too crowded, even outside of the rush hour, but he also appreciated the anonymity of it, how no one knew who he was and he didn’t know anyone either. He was less of a fan of the Metro that he had to take to bring him to the station, into the heart of Paris, and he resolved to take Jairus home in a cab. He didn’t usually indulge himself like that, but he would indulge Jairus. Of course he would.

At half past ten, the boards finally flickered into life and announced that the Eurostar had arrived and he went to hover by the platform. His chest felt tight and his brow was damp, and he had to loosen his grip on his coffee or he would have end up crushing the cup and spilling the dregs over his hand. 

A stream of people began to come off the platform, dragging suitcases and chattering, and he waited for so long that the flood had begun to ease by the time he saw Jairus. The man was wearing a backpack with a battered leather jacket slung over his shoulders, and oh God – he looked– he looked like – Lukan didn’t know. He only knew that Jairus was there, actually there, and he wanted to touch him and – 

“Hi,” he said instead, weaving through the crowd to meet him. “You’re here.”

“Hello, Lukan,” Jairus said. “I bloody hope that coffee is for me.”


	22. Book Two: Chapter Seven

Jairus sat hunched in the back of the taxi, clutching a coffee that Lukan had insisted on buying for him. They wove slowly through the busy streets, listening to the driver swearing under his breath at the traffic. Jairus didn’t speak, and Lukan wasn’t inclined to try and make him. Now that the man was actually there, back at his side, he could hardly think straight. His skin prickled on the back of his neck and on his arms, and there was a lump in his throat that he could not swallow. At least with the driver in the car, there was a good reason for their shared silence. It was when he finally dropped them off on Lukan’s street that the problems began.

“Nice place,” Jairus said, throwing his bag over his shoulder and peering at the building. “Which floor are you on?”

“Third,” Lukan said, leading the way to the main door. “It isn’t much, but I like it.”

He immediately regretted his words; he’d seen Jairus’ tiny flat, with the bedroom that served also as a lounge and an office, and he hoped that Jairus wouldn’t think his comment meant that he had a bad opinion of his home. 

He needn’t have worried – Jairus followed him into the lift, then into the flat, without a word of surprise. He dumped his rucksack in the spare room, and took the seat he was offered in the lounge. 

“Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?”

“Coffee.” Jairus seemed to start at the sound of Lukan’s voice, as though he had already forgotten that he wasn’t alone. “Please.”

Lukan took his time making the coffee, listening to the sound of Jairus shifting his weight on the couch. He couldn’t believe the man was there. He was actually there, in Paris. Lukan closed his eyes and could almost feel the pulse of the past in his blood, the feeling of the last few weeks that he was finally doing the right thing. They were so close. So close.

Then there was the creak of the door and he turned to find Jairus leaning on the door frame. He looked tired, even more than he had done in London. The deep circles under his eyes looked like bruises, and there was more grey in his hair than there had been before. It was shorter too – still tied at back of his head – but not hanging down the back of his neck. It suited him, even with the grey streaks. He hadn’t shaved either, for what was probably days, but even that didn’t look badly on him. He was handsome enough to pull off the unkempt air. 

Jairus was staring back at him, and Lukan wondered what he looked like to him, after almost a year. He wondered if Jairus found his own signs of disarray as strangely appealing as Lukan found his. But Jairus was an unreadable as he had been back in London, and Lukan quickly gave up on the idea that he might be able to see anything in Jarius’ expression. That way, surely, madness lay.

“This is a nice place,” Jairus said suddenly. “Makes my flat look a bit shit in comparison.”

“Oh, I don’t agree at all.” Lukan put the pot of coffee down on the breakfast bar and gestured towards the stool nearest Jairus. “I thought your flat was cosy.”

Jairus snorted, but a small smile crossed his face as he sat down. 

“It’s all I can afford,” he shrugged. “It does the job. Don’t need much else.”

Lukan poured a cup from the pot and passed it to him. Often in London, when he had seen him, Jairus had been shaky, with hands that had a perpetual faint tremor. The hands that took the cup of coffee now were steady, and Lukan wondered if Jairus was just becoming more used to having him around. Now that his heart had calmed, his own physical reaction didn’t feel too profound right now. It felt – like was – right. Like it was almost alright. 

“I bought this flat when I returned to Paris fifteen years ago,” Lukan offered, when it became clear that Jairus wasn’t going to say anymore. “My gym is nearby. Perhaps I could show it to you.”

And the day passed in such moments; Jairus giving him short sentences, Lukan trying to get more and failing, until the next moment. At times he caught Jairus watching him, that look on his face that he remembered from flashes of their time in London. That night – the last night – he could hardly bear to think of it – but he had been in no doubt then. No doubt that Jairus felt something too. Something that wasn’t to do with their history, the re-living. Something else, and God help him if he knew what to do about it. 

Well, he knew what he _wanted_ to do. He wanted Jairus’ hands on him again. He wanted to sit quietly, pressed to his side, moving as slowly as they liked because this time, there would be no one to interrupt them. That is what he wanted, but Lukan didn’t know how to ask for it. He had never been shy before, not really, but Bella was right when she said it had been a long time. Not for the first time he wondered if this was so separate a part of who he was, whether it was all part of the re-living. 

_Perhaps he had loved Jairus for lifetimes._

The thought was too much. Because if he had loved him for that long, what was their mistake? What if this time they would have to be apart again? Lukan didn’t know if he was unselfish enough for that. Not when he could remember the touch of Jairus’ lips to his own. It had been right, and he prayed that the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to separate them once they had found each other. 

In the afternoon, Lukan showed Jairus the gym, even daring to take him up to meet Maxie. He wondered if he would regret it, but he was already at the top of the stairs before he thought about what Maxie would say. 

“Nice to meet you,” Maxie said, in his broken English, shaking Jairus’ hand. “I hear very much about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” Jairus said, not even hesitating, and he gave Lukan another smile as he did it. Lukan blushed and went to see the kids whilst Maxie chatted away and Jairus tried to understand him. It would be better if he just didn’t know what they were talking about. Whatever it was, they seemed to get on well enough. 

“He reminds me of Malachy,” Jairus said later, as they descended the stairs to the street. Lukan wondered what that meant exactly, but assumed it couldn’t be too bad. Malachy was Jairus’ best friend, after all. 

“Would you like to go for dinner?” Lukan asked, instead of pressing the issue. “Or are you too tired?”

“It’s been a long day,” Jairus said quietly. “Let’s eat at the flat. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Lukan said. “But let’s get some wine.”

He didn’t even mind that Jairus insisted on paying for it. 

And when it came to the end of the evening, he pretended not to notice that Jairus stopped to stand outside his bedroom door on the way back from the bathroom, but he did hold his breath waiting for the knock that didn’t come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bangs their stupid heads together*


	23. Book Two: Chapter Eight

Lukan slept badly, unused to having another presence in the flat, and when he finally conceded defeat at dawn and went to the kitchen, he was surprised to find Jairus already there. He hadn’t heard him leave his room.

“Good morning,” Lukan said. “Would you like some coffee?”

Jairus nodded. He looked exhausted, and Lukan wondered if he had slept at all. 

“Not really,” came the reply. “I don’t do well in new places.”

“It is funny you should say that,” Lukan said, carrying the mugs of coffee over to the breakfast bar. “I have some news for you, if it isn’t too early to hear it.”

Jairus just nodded and cradled his cup in his hands. 

“I don’t think – that Paris is all that new to you.”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“ _You_ haven’t,” Lukan said carefully, watching Jairus’ face. “But my friend – she has been helping me with our Reliving, and she thinks that she may have found you. Based on my dreams, the things that I see. We think we know where you came from.”

Lukan wasn’t sure what reaction he expected from Jairus, but when none came at all, he was a little lost for words himself. They sat in awkward silence, drinking their coffee, until Jairus eventually, painfully, seemed to stir himself.

“Tell me.”

So Lukan did, the whole tale, and Jairus just nodded, his face greyer than the light that was coming in the window. 

“And you think I’m him?” he asked. “Javert? The policeman who jumped off a bridge.”  
“Maybe,” Lukan murmured. Jairus’ voice was guarded, but he could hardly blame him. It was a lot to take in, and although he was concerned that the man was simply shutting down at the news, it felt like a relief to his very stomach that he had shared his news. 

“Jairus?” Lukan reached out and touched his hand, and was pathetically grateful when the man didn’t flinch away from him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Can we – could we walk? Together? It helps me to think.”

“Of course.”

It was still before six when Lukan and Jairus had dressed and stepped out onto the rainy streets.

“Where would you like to go?” Lukan asked, peering at Jairus from under his hood.

“Anywhere, as long as we’re moving.”

Lukan nodded, turned on his heel and began to walk. The rain fell steadily around them as they made their way towards the Jardin du Luxumbourg. Lukan was a little concerned about the state of Jairus’ shoes, and whether they’d keep him dry. But then he looked at the man’s face and saw a sort of relief there, like an animal freed from its cage. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, he thought; Jairus was a policeman, after all, and if he did turn out to be this Javert - well, the walking would make sense. 

They came to the gates of the garden and Lukan cursed, gazing up at the locked gate and remembering that they opened at seven for the people going to work and school. He turned to apologise, only to find Jairus staring up at the gates, his brow furrowed.

“I remember – I’ve seen these gates before. I’m sure of it.”

Lukan watched him carefully, for the shallow breaths and grey face that he had come to expect from Jairus in meltdown, but it did not come. Instead, quite unexpectedly, the man grinned.

“I also remember this,” and he was up, climbing over the gate before Lukan could even think to stop him.

“What – what are you doing?” he asked, as Jairus dropped down on the other side and came to look at him through the bars.

“Come on,” Jairus said. “Something feels right here. Please.”

He reached through the bars and just for a moment, grasped Lukan’s hand. His grip was warm and sure, and it seemed for just a moment to stop Lukan in his tracks. Lukan’s heart pounded in his ears as he carefully squeezed Jairus’ fingers, then took his hand away to grasp the gate.

“You’re a policeman,” he gritted his teeth and, to his disgust, pulled himself up with far more difficulty than Jairus had. “You’re not supposed to encourage this sort of thing.”

He lowered himself over the other side and fell unceremoniously to his knees. Jairus touched him voluntarily again, for the second time in as many minutes, and pulled him to his feet.

“Come on,” Jairus said, and he was shy suddenly. “Show me this place. Can you feel it?”

And as the air seemed to thicken around them, Lukan could not say if it was the weight of a memory long forgotten, or the promise of something new beginning to grow.

They walked in the garden until the dawn had come and gone, and the paths around them were full of people hurrying to work in the rain. Lukan was soaked to the skin even through his coat, but he barely noticed. At some point, Jairus had pushed back his hood and his hair shone with the raindrops that soaked him. They hadn’t talked much, not since they scaled the gate, but for the first time since Jairus had arrived, the silence wasn’t awkward. The garden had calmed him down and Lukan wondered if Javert had walked there, and perhaps it had calmed him too, once upon a time.

“Can we get more coffee?” Jairus’ voice cut into his thoughts, and Lukan dragged himself away from a memory that had begun to stir, half formed. He thought he saw a girl in a blue dress, with long golden hair, darting in between the trees, looking back at him as though he was supposed to follow. When he looked again, there was no one there. 

“Coffee,” he mumbled, around the lump in his throat. “Of course. I think we both need it.”

Lukan wasn’t exactly sure where they were going as they left the gardens, but his feet carried him, and Jairus was happy to follow them. 

Away from the Luxembourg, the streets were busy with workers and students rushing to school, but none of them seemed to pay Lukan and Jairus any attention. They could hardly have looked as though they fitted in, but that was the nature of city living, after all. Sometimes, it made Lukan ache, and he had never known why, for years and years, as long as he could remember. Since he met Jairus though, and understood what he was, understood the Reliving and what it actually meant, it all began to make more sense. He was aching for a time gone by because he actually remembered it, somewhere inside. He chuckled. 

“What’s funny?” Jairus was scanning the streets, taking in every detail, and he turned to fix that gaze on Lukan.

“I was just thinking that perhaps I am not so much of an old fool as I thought I was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought I have always been a grumpy old man, even when I was young. Now I know I have an old soul. I’ve been excused.”

Jairus laughed, the sound that Lukan didn’t think he would ever get used to, or ever tire of, and shook the rain from his hair.

“You are the least grumpy person I have ever met.”

“You have barely seen me first thing in the morning.”

Jairus’ eyes widened for a fraction of a second, as Lukan heard what he had said, and felt his face go bright red. Jairus raised a hand and brushed his fingers across Lukan’s cheek. He smiled, lop-sided and so beautiful, and Lukan didn’t care who was watching them. London, and what had happened there, seemed very far away.

He circled Jairus’ wrist with his fingers, and drew his hand up to his lips. He fixed his eyes on Jairus’ and pressed a soft kiss to his palm. Jairus’ pulse raced beneath Lukan’s fingertips, and his eyes were dark before he closed them and curled his own fingers against Lukan’s cheek once more. When he opened his eyes again, he seemed about to speak. Lukan pressed his thumb to Jairus’ lips and shook his head. 

“Don’t. Not here. Let’s go.”

He took a gentle hold of Jairus’ sleeve and drew him across the bridge on the way to a coffee shop that he knew. 

Halfway across Jairus stopped dead and put his other hand to his head, groaning. Lukan felt rather than saw Jairus’ legs begin to buckle and moved them over to the railing where he could hold. Jairus was breathing hard, his knuckles white where he clutched at the metal, and all of the good humour was gone from his face. This wasn’t the bridge though, not Javert’s bridge, but maybe – perhaps it would be enough to remind Jairus. Perhaps – 

“Get me off this bridge,” Jairus muttered. “Please. Get me off it.”


	24. Book Two: Chapter Nine

For the rest of that day, they walked miles and miles, around and through the city, but as hard as Lukan tried, he couldn’t get Jairus to smile like he had that morning in the gardens. Despite what had happened on the bridge, once he had some more coffee in him, Jairus _seemed_ happy enough, but that easy familiarity had retreated once more. And the only reason he seemed that way was because he’d _had_ to be alright always, his whole life lived day to day, waiting for the person who would come and relieve some of the pressure of being alive. 

It made Lukan ache.

The walking didn’t help Lukan much either. Jairus might be used to great distances, and indeed he seemed more comfortable the longer they were on the move, but Lukan would be the first to admit he had let his fitness go a little in the last few years. He’d have to keep an eye on that, if he was going to keep up with the man, and that thought almost stopped him in his tracks. 

_How long was he planning on keeping up?_

When they came to a bridge that he couldn’t steer them around, they crossed as quickly as they could, and Lukan didn’t take them anywhere near Javert’s bridge. Neither of them were ready for that, and he didn’t want to see how Jairus might react to it. If they managed to avoid it for the entire visit, it would still not be enough. He was pretty convinced now that Jairus was – had been – this Javert, and the idea that the man had killed himself was playing on Lukan’s mind. He didn’t know what had happened between himself and Javert, what the mistake had been, but he had found Jairus here and now. Surely that meant something. It had to mean something, or else why would they have come together? Jairus had been searching for him for lifetimes, actual lifetimes. The idea made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It must mean _something_.

“Shall we go back to the flat?” Lukan asked eventually, when night began to roll in and they hadn’t eaten for hours. Jairus nodded, and the evening passed with a quick dinner and more wine, then Jairus retired early. 

Lukan sat up a little longer with some brandy and listened as Jairus settled down in his room, the bed creaking from his weight. 

And then he went to bed, exhausted from the exercise and the feeling of dread that had begun to settle over him. It was late, and he knew he’d be awake at half past four as usual. He strained to hear Jairus in the next room. There was only silence. 

But at half past four, there was screaming.

Lukan woke so violently that he almost fell from the bed, and tried to remember what he had been dreaming about, to make himself scream. Then he realised it wasn’t him at all.

Jairus.

He stumbled to the door, pulling on a pair of shorts and was about to let himself into the spare room when his mind caught up. Jairus might not welcome him when he was in a state and – 

Then the scream came again and he gave up his hesitation. He pushed inside to find Jairus writhing on the bed, the duvet tangled tightly around him. Lukan tried to free him, patted at his shoulders, blinking through a fog that was starting to descend in his mind. 

“Jairus – Jai! Wake up!”

A hand shot up and cracked him so hard around the jaw that he fell to the floor. His head span and he sat up slowly, holding his face. Jairus was sitting up, his arms held before him as though he expected a fight, but he wasn’t looking at Lukan. He still hadn’t woken properly. 

Lukan reached up to the bedside lamp, and flicked it on. Jairus started and shook his head in the light, then groaned. 

“Lukan?”

“It’s me,” Lukan sat down on the edge of the bed, ready to defend himself in case the man wasn’t fully aware of what was going on. “You were dreaming.”

“I always dream,” Jairus grunted, his arms wrapped around his knees, the duvet pooling at his waist. “What did I – why are you holding your face?”

“It was an accident. I shouldn’t have touched you.”

“I – did I hit you? Christ, Lukan! I’m sorry.”

Jairus buried his fingers in his hair, and they sat in silence as he began to rock back and forwards. 

“It’s half four, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Lukan said, his fingernails digging into his palms, his own dream niggling somewhere at the back of his mind. “Why?”

“Always wake up now. This time. Always.”

Lukan drew in a sharp breath, and he reached over to hold Jairus’ shoulder.

“Me too. Every night since I met you.”

“Christ,” Jairus repeated, rocking back and forwards. “I’m sorry.”

Lukan wasn’t sure he could ever remember hearing such despair in the man’s voice – in the voice of any person he had ever known, not even his mother in the worst days – and suddenly it was hard to breathe. 

“It’s not your fault,” he pressed closer, until his bare arm touched Jairus’, and the electric went through him. “Please, Jairus.”

Slowly, shivering in the cool air, Jairus raised his eyes and met Lukan’s. They were guarded; he was being careful even here, where he should feel safe. Where Lukan wanted – needed – him to feel safe. 

And he didn’t know what else to do then, how else to show Jairus that he was safe, but to kiss him.

It was clumsy and Jairus gasped beneath his lips. Lukan willed him not to pull away, willed him closer, and sighed his relief when Jairus hooked his arm around Lukan’s neck and pulled him to lie down beside him. Jairus tasted as though he had not brushed his teeth and Lukan wrinkled his nose, but he could not have stopped even if he wanted to. He remembered – oh, as he had remembered every day since London – how Jairus had felt pressed to the wall beneath his hands, and he could not stop himself from stroking Jairus’ arms, running his fingers over his bare chest. Jairus gasped again.

“Lukan, please.”

Lukan didn’t know what he was asking for, and he stopped to see he was being watched with bright eyes, eyes that he thought – with horror – were dangerously close to tears.

“Anything,” he said.

“Just – kiss me. Nothing else. Please. I don’t think I can.”

Lukan felt his cheeks redden and drew his hands away, but Jairus kissed him again, and the embarrassment faded away. 

They kissed, long and lazy kisses, until eventually Jairus was almost asleep, brushing his lips against Lukan’s neck, his fingers curled in the waistband of Lukan’s shorts.

“Stay,” he murmured, when Lukan began to pull away, and he was helpless but to obey. Lukan settled down at Jairus’ back and put an arm over his waist, closing his eyes against the headache that was threatening to gather there. As the minutes ticked by and he listened to Jairus’ even breaths, the pain began to stab behind his eyes but, thankfully, he fell into a dreamless sleep, Jairus warm against his side.


	25. Book Two: Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has warnings for talk about suicide.

When Lukan woke the next morning, Jairus was not at his side.

Lukan wasn’t sure of the time, but the weak sunlight was on his face, so he must have slept quite late. He rested his hands over his eyes and thought of Jairus; how it felt falling asleep at his side, and how it was just as though he had found his home. For the first time since his mother had died, he’d felt as though he belonged somewhere. And God, to kiss him again, to hold him…well, if he hadn’t been sure before, he was now. Whatever had happened in the past, this was meant to be now. Finally the world made sense. 

Eventually he dragged himself from the bed and into the bathroom. His jaw was purple and swollen where Jairus had lashed out, but he’d had worse injuries from training in the ring, and it was nothing he couldn’t handle. 

As he was showering, he realised that the flat was too quiet for someone else to be up and about. And, indeed, Jairus was not there when he went to look. In the kitchen though, the coffee pot was warm to touch, and there was a note pinned to the fridge with a magnet from London. 

_Gone for a walk._

He ran a finger over Jairus’ cramped, awkward handwriting and nodded, as though the man was there and had spoken the words. Jairus was an adult, of course, and could do whatever he wanted, but a part of Lukan wished that he had been there when he woke up, almost so he could be sure that he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. But Jairus needed space, and he’d made it clear that he needed to walk sometimes – he did his best thinking on his feet. Lukan just hoped that Jairus was thinking about the same things that he was, at least. 

Lukan made himself some coffee, and while it was brewing, he wrapped some ice in a towel and pressed it to his jaw. By the time he’d drunk a cup and flicked through a magazine, the swelling had started to go down. On second thought, perhaps it was a good thing that Jairus hadn’t watched him doing this. It would only make him feel guiltier than he undoubtedly already did.

The rain from the previous day had eased off and Lukan decided to drop in on the gym, whilst he was at a loose end. On his way down the stairs he sent Jairus a text to let him know he was out, and where he could meet him when he was done walking.

At the gym, Maxie and Angelique were at work with a group of new little ones. 

“Hey everyone,” Angelique said. “Look who’s here!”

“Alright,” Lukan smiled, clapping Maxie on the shoulder. “So what are we up to?”

Some of the little ones were so tiny that they barely came up to Lukan’s waist, and they gazed up at the stranger with enormous eyes. He’d been that small once; it had taken him so long to grow that his mother was concerned about him, and he remembered how frightening it could be to only ever be looking up. 

“This is Lukan, padawans,” Maxie said. “He’s the boss. But I’m much scarier than him!”

Maxie bared his teeth and a few of the braver ones laughed, and when Lukan got down on his knees to join in the drills, twelve pairs of small shoulders relaxed. 

It was past lunchtime by the time he realised how late it was, and Jairus still hadn’t shown his face. As Maxie passed the kids back to their parents, and the older ones came in, Lukan went to check his phone. No reply to his message that morning, and no other texts either. 

An uneasy feeling stole over him, a shiver that crept up his spine, and he sat down in his desk chair. It had been hours now, and it was raining again. He could hear the drops hitting his window. It probably wasn’t unusual for Jairus to be out so long – they had walked together the whole day yesterday, and Jairus hadn’t been tired when they finally came to a stop – but it did seem odd that he hadn’t been in touch at all. Before his brain intervened, Lukan dialled Jairus’ number. It rang until the voicemail kicked in, and he hung up. He waited a few minutes, then called again. Voicemail. Well, he wouldn’t chase him. The man obviously needed his space.

He put his phone in his breast pocket and went back out to have a coffee with Maxie and Angelique. He kept his hands wrapped around his coffee cup to stop them wandering over his phone. Maxie glanced down at his white knuckles, and eyed his face carefully, but he didn’t say anything. Angelique provided more than enough distraction anyway, once she got talking. She’d be off to university soon and, if there wasn’t a boxing club, she was going to start one. 

“We’ll be sorry to see you go,” Lukan said, and was surprised at the thickness in his voice. “You won’t forget us, will you?”

“Like I ever could,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You okay, old man?”

“Just tired. Tell me more about what you’ve been up to.”

Angelique never needed an invitation to talk and she didn’t need one now to keep going. But at the back of his mind was a small pressure growing again, a thought that with every minute that ticked by, Jairus still hadn’t turned up and he still wasn’t in touch. 

He waited until Maxie and Angelique left him and took up his phone again. He knew there were no messages, but it didn’t stop the check, the obsessive thought that maybe he had missed something. A feeling of dread had settle on his stomach like a lead weight, a feeling that forced itself up his throat and made his mouth taste of acid. He wondered if Jairus had done to him what he had done; run, run away as soon as something happened that he couldn’t control. In the end he dialled Jairus again, again, three times before he gave up and he thought that he might be sick.

Then, finally, his phone buzzed with a message and he knocked it to the floor in his eagerness to answer it. It was only a text, but he’d take it. 

I’M SORRY FOR WHAT I’VE DONE TO YOU.

“Oh God,” he said, and immediately tried to dial Jairus again. No answer.

His hands shook as he went back to the text, and then he _was_ sick, suddenly and violently vomiting his coffee into the sink. There was a pressure in his head, the now familiar thud of his heart in his throat, and as his knees went from underneath him, he smelled water – thick, filthy water, and felt the breath of cool air across his face. He was outside, by a river and it was dark. Shots fired in the night and his hands were covered in blood and then a shadow ran past him, into the darkness. 

He came around clutching at the sink, and forced himself to pick up his phone. The Reliving had never been like this before. He’d had the dreams, and waves of alien emotion, but never had it been so strong it had knocked him out. Lukan had to find him. He had to find Jairus now.

He stumbled out into the rain and leaned against the wall by the front door as the cool water hit his face and woke him up. He had to think clearly, because Jairus obviously wasn’t thinking clearly – he’d probably never thought clearly in his life, not about this, at least.

Jairus had left all of his things behind in the flat, which meant that he probably hadn’t gone far when he woke up and spooked that morning. Lukan tried to think, but the truth was that in many ways, he didn’t really know the man. That hadn’t seemed to matter much, not in the greater scheme of things, but it mattered now when Lukan didn’t have the first idea where he could be. There was the garden though. Jairus had seemed almost happy there, and Lukan decided to start with it, for want of another idea.

But the park was mostly empty because of the rain, and it did not take long for him to see that Jairus wasn’t there. He rapped his knuckles against his forehead, trying to make his sluggish brain co-operate, and it did come up with something. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and searched for a number that he hoped he hadn’t deleted. 

There it was. Malachy. 

Lukan leaned against the wall of the closed coffee hut and prayed Malacy would pick up.

“Hello?”

“Malachy? It’s Lukan. From the Olympics. Do you remember me?”

“Oh yeah I do,” Malachy said slowly, his voice guarded. “What’s up?”

“Jairus is here, in Paris. With me.”

“Yeah I know,” Malachy sounded breathless, as though he was walking fast. “Took off a few days ago. Texted me to let me know.”

The weight pushing Lukan down was making him faint again, and he groaned as he slid down the wall. 

“You okay, Lukan?”

“No. I can’t find him. He disappeared this morning. He left his things behind. And he isn’t answering the phone.”

There was a very distinctive sound of Malachy coming to a halt.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“Not in touch at all?”

“Well, he sent me a text,” Lukan said. “It said ‘I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you.’”

“Oh God,” Malachy said. “Fuck.”

Malachy’s voice was muffled, like Lukan was listening to him under water, and he had to close his eyes against a stab of pain. 

“Lukan, listen. It hasn’t been a good year so far,” Malachy said, his voice urgent. “Jai – he’s had a bad time. Really bad. He was struggling, like not sleeping and acting all out of line all the time, so they tried to haul him into the shrink, right, and he refused to go. So he got suspended and then in February…”

“Please. Tell me.”

“In February, he tried to kill himself, man. Some uniforms hauled him down off Waterloo Bridge at bloody half past four in the morning. He was going to _jump_ , Lukan. No doubt he was going to do it.”

If Malachy said anything else, Lukan didn’t hear him. His phone dropped from his hand as he slowly keeled over, his head pounding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out and about tomorrow so thought I'd drop this early.


	26. Book Two: Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as last time apply. You all know how this goes.

“Monsieur?”

Lukan came to with a start, a small hand slapping at his face. It was still raining, and he peeled his eyes open. The child – a boy, bundled in a hooded jacket – jumped back warily, but he did not run. 

“Are you okay, monsieur?”

“What time is it?” Lukan rasped, sitting up too quickly, his head spinning. 

The boy shrugged. 

“I heard the bells ringing for six o’clock not long ago.”

_Six?_ Lukan dug around for his phone and found it on the ground beside him. In a puddle. He couldn’t turn it on, and he swore. The boy took another step back, his nervous eyes fixed on Lukan’s hands. 

“Are you late, monsieur?”

“I don’t know.”

Lukan put his phone in his pocket and pushed himself up onto his knees. His head was full, but at least his vision wasn’t going again. The boy, still cautious, but obviously deciding that this strange man wasn’t that much of a threat, sidled over and offered his hand to help Lukan to his feet. He looked him over and seemed to make a decision, nodded once and then turned to run away into the driving rain. 

Lukan shivered; he’d been laid out on the wet ground too long, and he was soaked. But there wasn’t time to go home and get changed. Even now, Jairus could be – well, Lukan couldn’t bring himself to think about what Malachy had said. If he thought too hard about it, he would never get up off the floor. He needed to search and to pray that it wasn’t too late. 

It couldn’t be too late.

The idea of it, now, when they were so close. When they’d found one another – he couldn’t bear it. 

At least he had a good idea of where Jairus might be going. It wasn’t too far to the Pont au Change. He wanted to run, but he didn’t have the strength for it. As he walked, he couldn’t decide if the weakness he was fighting was a good or a bad sign. It could mean that whatever he shared with Jairus was still there. It hadn’t been severed, because he could feel him, could feel that Jairus was close to giving up but clinging on still. Or it could mean that Jairus was already gone, and Lukan’s body was trying to tell him something. He shuddered and tried to put that thought from his head once more. Jairus was still here. _He had to be._

One thing was certain though; with every step he took, Lukan was more and more certain that this was the mistake they had made before. The mistake he had made. _He_ should have stopped this once before already, in whatever life he and Jairus had shared. This was it. And as soon as he realised that, a strange thing happened. He began to feel stronger, his steps more steady and more sure, his heart calm in his chest. He could smell gunpowder, that now familiar scent on the air, and in the rush of blood in his ears, he was sure that he heard screaming. 

It didn’t really come as any kind of surprise when he stumbled onto the bridge and saw a familiar profile leaning over the balustrade. 

It had become a dark and close evening, especially with the rain so heavy that Lukan could hardly see his hand in front of his face. But it was Jairus, standing there, half in the shadows. Of that he was sure. A lone passer by rushed along the other side of the bridge, and Jairus seemed to turn his head, although he couldn’t possibly have heard anything. There was no mistaking his profile though. He wasn’t even wearing his hood against the weather. 

Lukan stood in his own shadow, heart pounding, and his knees like jelly. He didn’t know what he was going to do. The rain and the rush of the water under the bridge half drowned out his thoughts. He could still smell the gunpowder on the air, and he was half away in another time when he realised that Jairus was standing very still. Too still, and as Lukan peered through the rain, he saw something that made his blood freeze. 

Jairus was already standing on the _wrong_ side of the balustrade. 

A pain shot through Lukan’s head again, and for a second he wasn’t on the bridge at all. He was standing on the river bank, on a clear night, sweat running down the back of his neck, and a figure in a long coat was falling, falling, falling…

It was only a moment, but he surged forwards in panic.

“Jairus!”

Jairus’ head snapped to the left and for a sickening moment, Lukan thought he would jump.

But he didn’t. 

_Thank God he didn’t._

Lukan wanted to grab the man and drag him over the balustrade, but Jairus had barely a hold on the stone. 

“Stay back, Lukan.”

The voice was quiet, but it stopped Lukan in his tracks. He clasped his hands into fists.

“Jairus –” 

“Don’t. Please. Don’t.”

Jairus’ voice was tired, and the little of his face that Lukan could see was almost grey in the half-light. His hair was plastered to his head, half out of his ponytail, and his jaw was twitching. 

And Lukan was tired. So tired, like he’d never be rested again. 

“I’m going to sit down. Is that alright?”

Jairus didn’t say no, as such, and Lukan half crumpled to the wet ground. He wasn’t sure that he could have done anything to stop Jairus even if he tried. Instead, he sat with his back to the balustrade and put his hands on his knees. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” It was a ridiculous thing to say, but it was safer than anything else. 

“I know.”

This was it, he knew. The man who had stood on the riverbank and watched Inspector Javert fall to his death was _supposed_ to have been here, pulling him down off the balustrade before he could do anything stupid. But he hadn’t been there. He’d been too late. And that was _his_ mistake. It was his mistake. All along, they’d thought it was Jairus. Jairus had believed he was the one who had done something wrong. He’d suffered lifetimes for it, sure that he had done something so terrible that he deserved the punishment. But it _wasn’t_ him. He was doomed, over and over again, to live that life. Inspector Javert, that poor desperate man, had jumped to his death, waiting for someone who never came. Someone who should have come for him. And Lukan – he’d never known it, not even for a moment. Never known any of the pain although it was his fault. _His_ mistake. 

The rain began to ease off, and Lukan held his breath to see if the woman walking on the other side of the road would turn to see them. She passed by, and he let himself breathe again. He turned his head to see that Jairus was there still.

He was, barely, clinging so tightly to the stone that his knuckles were white. 

“Can I stand next to you?” Lukan asked, hauling himself to his feet. He needed to get them off this bridge. Before – before someone saw and who knew what Jairus would be dragged through? Lukan was so dizzy that he could barely trust himself to stand up, let alone take charge, but he had to try. He stood as closely to Jairus as he could and, after a moment, rested his hand over Jairus’. 

The man went stiff, like his spine had been pulled tight, but the gamble was worth it. 

“I can’t do this,” Jairus said. “You’d be better off letting me go.”

The lifelessness in the words, as though he’d already given up, was too much and Lukan moved his hand up to hold Jairus’ arm tightly. 

“Don’t say that. Please.”

“Lukan?” 

“Yes?”

“If I jumped right now, you wouldn’t be able to stop me. You’re shaking.”

“I wouldn’t. But it would hardly matter, because I’d be coming with you.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Jairus huffed, and it was almost a laugh. Almost.

“I’m not. If you jump off this bridge, I’m jumping too.”

Jairus dropped his head, and he was trembling too under Lukan’s hand.

“Why?” he asked. “I’ve done – caused you nothing but trouble.”

“You think all of this is your fault, Jairus, but you’re wrong. It was me all along.”

“I don’t-”

“Please just listen,” Lukan was holding his arm so tightly that it must have been painful, and his heart thudded in his ears. “It isn’t you. It never was. It was my mistake.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No I’m not.”

“Lukan-”

Jairus’ voice was barely a whisper, and then time seemed to stop, as a great shudder went through Jairus, and his fingers twitched on the stone. 

He would let go.

Lukan felt as though a burst of post-match adrenaline had shot through him, and he moved before he knew what he was doing. 

His hands clasped around Jairus’ chest, and he hauled him back over the balustrade as though he weighed no more than a child. They both fell back onto the pavement, and Jairus was twisting in his arms.

“Fuck you, Lukan!” he screamed, and an elbow came flying back to hit Lukan in the face. “Fuck you!”

They grappled on the pavement. Lukan could hardly breathe through the blood flowing from his nose, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t let go. Not this time. But it was like fighting a wild animal, pinning a wolf to the ground and expecting it to stay put.

“Jairus, stop!” he choked around the blood in his mouth. “Please stop.”

He manoeuvred them so that he could see Jairus’ face, crushing him into the pavement with his body weight. Jairus was mad, writhing as though he could still get away. A fist came up to glance off Lukan’s temple, and he swore. 

“Fuck off!” Jairus growled in reply. “Let me go.”

Lukan didn’t reply. In a flash of panic, as he felt Jairus move to throw him off, he brought down his own elbow into Jairus’ chest, winding him, and - in the second it bought him - managed to get his hands around Jairus’ wrists, and a knee pressed into his stomach. 

He put his face close to Jairus’, tried to find something there that he recognised. But Jairus wasn’t really there, his eyes white around the edges, mouth twisted in a snarl. He was panting and _still fighting_ , and Lukan didn’t know what he was going to do. Except at that moment, his nose began to drip blood onto Jairus’ face, and the sensation seemed to bring him to his senses. Or at least bring him back from whatever hell he had been trapped in. 

There was a moment of silence, and then Jairus went limp on the pavement. Lukan held him a little longer and had to let him go, collapsing at his side, energy spent. He felt lightheaded, his heart pounding and it was as though he was standing beside himself, looking down at them on the wet ground. 

Then the world shifted again and he was back on the ground, looking up at an old man. No, looking _through_ an old man, because he wasn’t truly there. Surely he wasn’t there. But the man was gazing down at them, and as his eyes met Lukan’s, he smiled. And the world exploded into a burst of light.

When Lukan came around, the old man was gone, and Jairus was sobbing.

He’d curled into a ball, his head tucked under his arm. But he was here, and he was alive.

“Can you feel it?” Lukan groaned, pushing himself up. “Jairus?”

No answer. Only sobs that seemed to rent the man in two, and it was a sign of how tired Jairus was that he didn’t try to fight as Lukan finally drew him safely into his arms.


	27. Book Two: Chapter Twelve

The walk home through the rain was hard, but Lukan didn’t think either of them would be welcome in a taxi, drenched and filthy as they were. He knew that he must look a sight too, with dried blood on his face and all over his coat. Besides, once Jairus had stopped crying, he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and seemed happy enough to walk. The only outward show of what had just happened was that Jairus allowed Lukan to guide him with a hand on his back.

Lukan felt calmer than he had in months. Exhausted, but calm as though he’d been through twelve rounds and knocked the guy to the floor at the end, and now he could collapse into bed. And the old man – a year ago, Lukan would be sure that he had imagined the ghost standing there. But since this had all begun – well, he didn’t know what was real anymore. All he knew is that the minute the man had smiled at him, he’d felt a profound sense of peace. Lukan desperately wanted to ask Jairus if he had seen anything, but Jairus had his hood pulled up and his head down, a sure sign that he didn’t feel like talking. Lukan contented himself with the fact that Jairus had at least stopped shaking. 

Neither of them said a word, in the end, till they were back at the flat. Lukan helped Jairus out of his coat, smoothing his hands over his shoulders, and turning Jairus to face him. Jairus’ face was grey, but his lips turned into a half-hearted smile. 

“I think I’m going to have a shower.”

It wasn’t what Lukan was expecting, or wanted, Jairus to say, but he nodded and went to get some fresh towels and followed Jairus to the bathroom door. Jairus turned to him to take the towels and, hesitantly, brought his hand up to brush Lukan’s cheek. Lukan braced himself, half expecting the familiar crackle of electricity at the touch, but there was none. Instead, a gentle warmth flooded through him, and he smiled. Jairus was examining the blood on Lukan’s face as though he hadn’t seen it there already, touching his fingertip to Lukan’s nose. Then Jairus dropped his hand, curled his fingers around Lukan’s and brought his lips to Lukan’s hand.

“I won’t be long.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

“Please.”

Lukan went first to his bedroom and changed into something dry, then went and dug through Jairus’ bag to find him some clothes. There was nothing really suitable enough – did the man own any casual clothes? He went back to his room and found some of his own. The trousers would be too short and the hoodie too wide at the shoulders, but it was better than nothing. And, besides, the idea of Jairus wearing his clothes brought that same curling warmth to Lukan’s stomach. 

He left the clothes outside the bathroom door and went to the kitchen. Coffee wasn’t a good idea – Jairus was twitchy enough as it was – but scrambled eggs and tea would be good enough. 

First though, he did his best to wash the blood from his face with no mirror. The water ran red through his fingers and he touched his nose gently, feeling for any tell-tale signs of an all too familiar break. He seemed to have escaped with what would probably be a decent black eye or two, judging by the dull ache in his face, and he swallowed two painkillers as he filled the kettle. The last thing he wanted was Jairus to feel guilty about hurting him again. Hopefully, all the damage from the last few days would just blend into one.

He hummed under his breath as the kettle boiled, the eggs cooking in the pan, and his mind began to wander as he listened to the sound of the water running next door. They had done it, whatever it was, by stopping Jairus from repeating Javert’s suicide. Lukan’s had been the mistake, by not saving him the first time around, and he wished that he could know who he had been. Who the old man was, and how he fitted into Javert’s story. Surely they had been tightly intertwined, for the universe to be so eager to reverse their mistakes, like he and Jairus were now. At that thought, Lukan blushed as he steeped the tea in two of his largest mugs; if the man and Javert were like he and Jairus were now, maybe they’d been – partners? Lovers? He put the mugs down rather harder than he needed to, and shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself there, _and_ he was thinking wishfully about their pasts. If the price of bringing Jairus some comfort was not knowing his own story, he would gladly pay it, and as for him and Jairus – well, that remained to be seen. 

“That smells good,” Jairus said, appearing at the door of the kitchen. “I didn’t know I was hungry.”

“Sit. It’s almost done.”

Jairus looked exhausted, his usual dark circles under his eyes, and he rested his hands on his forehead. Lukan watched him out of the corner of his eye as he served up the eggs. He wanted nothing more than to touch Jairus again, to hold him, but he wouldn’t push it. Not tonight. He put the plates down and handed Jairus a fork. 

“Is it quiet now? In your head?” Jairus asked.

“Yes,” Lukan said. “It is.”

Jairus nodded, then began to eat. He was so slow it was as though it pained him to even chew, but Lukan didn’t try to rush him, even when he had finished his own. Instead, he got up and washed the pot, tidied, did anything except make Jairus uncomfortable. Then, when Jairus had finally finished, Lukan asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jairus put down his fork and shook his head.

“Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Although – the blood. The blood you had on your face.”

“Yes?” Lukan asked, wrapping his hands around his mug and sitting back down at the table.

“Did I do that to you?” 

Jairus didn’t sound upset this time as he asked the question. Rather, he was hesitant. 

“Yes. When I – pulled you down.”

“I didn’t know it was you. I thought that I did because you’d been next to me, but when we were fighting – it wasn’t you. It was someone else. I’m sure of it.”

“Who?” Lukan asked softly.

“A man, with long hair. Longer than mine. And sideburns. Big ones. He was the one I was fighting with. Not you. I would have stopped if it was you.”

Jairus sounded remarkably calm, as though he was recounting a story he had read in the newspaper, but Lukan’s blood rushed in his ears. 

“Maybe that was him. Maybe it was Javert. I think that I saw – I saw an old man watching us. But he wasn’t really there. He faded away. I think he was me, and so maybe you saw Javert. Like the two moments were happening at the same time.”

“I’ve never read anything like that for other Relivers,” Jairus mumbled through a mouthful of tea. 

“Every account I’ve read seems to be different. So maybe ours is too.”

Jairus nodded, and drained his mug. “Maybe. But I can’t think about it now. I just want to sleep.”

“Okay,” Lukan said softly.

“With you. I mean-” Jairus blushed. “Will you stay with me?”

“Oh. Yes. If that’s what you want.”

Jairus just nodded, his shoulders slumped. Lukan couldn’t bear to ask anything of him that he couldn’t handle. Instead he went through to the bedroom and drew back the duvet, shoving things from his bedside table into the drawer. Why had he let his room get in such a state? It was so bad it was embarrassing. 

“It’s fine,” Jairus said from the doorway, where he was leaning wearily. “Don’t worry.”

Lukan straightened up and watched as Jairus stepped over the threshold. This was new territory for them and then it didn’t matter, because Jairus raised a careful hand and pressed it to Lukan’s cheek. His thumb brushed the delicate skin under Lukan’s eye and he finally brought his own grey eyes up to Lukan’s face. Lukan held his breath, willing, wanting, and what had happened back in the alley in London seemed very far away when Jairus finally bent his head to kiss him. 

It was soft, and the burning he had felt whenever they touched before had gone, replaced by an ache that just as irresistible. Lukan brought a hand up to cup Jairus’ face, and used the other to grasp the front of his hoodie. Now he was so close, he wouldn’t be letting him go.

Jairus was trembling but that could have been fatigue, because he managed a small smile when they finally parted.

“Come on,” Lukan said, taking charge. “You’re cold.”

He shed his trousers and shirt, pulling a pair of gym shorts and a vest on. He kept his back to Jairus, who got into bed fully clothed – hoodie and all. Despite that, he was still shivering when Lukan took a deep breath and slipped into bed beside him. 

Lukan's stomach flipped over when Jairus rested his face against his neck. His stubble scratched at him, but he wouldn't have it any other way, and he brought a hand up to keep Jairus’ face there. It was real, and Jairus was here, and they'd be alright. It was going to be alright.

“I’m so tired,” Jairus muttered. “I'm more tired than I've ever been.”

“You can sleep now. I'm here. And it's over.”

“It's over.”

Jairus whispered the words into Lukan's neck, and there was a moment of quiet before he took a shuddering breath and began to weep anew.

Lukan manoeuvred them underneath the duvet and fumbled for the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Jairus clung to him, fingers curled in his t-shirt, and Lukan stroked his hair. The invisible hand that had been clutching his heart for the past year, squeezing it too tightly in his chest, had loosened and there was a gentle warmth there instead. It spread out from where Jairus' tears were soaking his shirt and ran through his body like warm honey dripping from his fingertips.

“I love you,” he said, before he even knew the words were on his tongue, and Jairus gasped. The words hung between them in the darkness until Lukan couldn't bear it anymore, the breath catching in his chest.

“Please say something.”

“I - I know,” Jairus said. “I know you do.”

It wasn't quite what Lukan longed to hear, but it was good enough for now.


	28. Book Two: Chapter Thirteen

_The dream was different this time, a gentler thing that Lukan felt he could reach out and hold in his hands._

_The familiar streets were calm now and a sun was rising over the buildings. He was alone. There was no gunfire, no screaming, no blood._

_And there was a man in front of him, walking into the light, and although Lukan couldn’t quite catch up with him, it didn’t matter. He knew who he was following and he knew that he would make it. He’d get there in the end._

And when he woke at four, it wasn’t with a pounding heart or the taste of blood in his mouth. It was to the feel of Jairus pressed up against his side, his hand resting over Lukan’s heart.

It was still raining outside, but that hardly seemed to matter right here and now. He eased his arm out from around Jairus’ shoulders, and resettled on his side, so their foreheads were almost pressed together. He had meant to go back to sleep, but found a pair of dark, tired eyes watching him. 

“It’s four, isn’t it?” Jairus mumbled.

“About that, yes. Did you dream?”

“Yes, but it was –”

“Different?”

Jairus nodded and lifted a hand from beneath the covers. He ran careful fingertips over Lukan’s cheek, coaxing him forwards until he was kissing him. It was safe and gentle, but it lit a fire in Lukan’s chest and he pulled Jairus towards him. 

Jairus was bolder than Lukan had thought he would be, although he flashed back to the alley in London, when Jairus had him pinned against the wall, and he groaned. He didn’t mean to, but Jairus’ tongue was hot in his mouth and he couldn’t help himself. Jairus paused and Lukan, afraid he had gone too far, clung to him. He couldn’t. Not after this. Not now. 

“Please.”  
It was too close to begging. 

“I’m not. Just let me look at you.”

Jairus had never said anything like that, and Lukan was glad that he couldn’t see him blushing in the darkness. But he did as he was asked and rolled over to switch on the lamp.

In the half light, Jairus’ eyes glowed and although he was clearly exhausted, he even managed a smile.

“I can’t believe – after all this time. I don’t think it has ever been quiet in my head. But it’s quiet now.”

“I’m glad that you have some peace.” Lukan shivered as Jairus stroked the back of his hand down his arm. “I am so very glad for you.”

“It’s because of you, Lukan. I owe you so much.”

“Just kiss me again.”

Jairus didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. They slid restlessly over Lukan’s back before coming around to clutch at his shirt front. Lukan trapped them there and focused on Jairus’ mouth. It was steadier than his hands, and so much hotter. Jairus relaxed into the tight grip on his wrists and finally pushed his tongue into Lukan’s mouth. 

Lukan wasn’t sure how he was going to cope with this slow pace, but he was determined to keep to it, for Jairus’ sake. He’d let him dictate – anything, so long as he stayed.

So it was inevitable that Jairus eventually moved first, seemingly desperate for more contact. He shifted onto his front until he was laid against Lukan, and for the first time Lukan felt a hardness against his thigh. He couldn’t help it; he rolled his hips upwards and Jairus groaned, his dark eyes coming to rest on Lukan’s face. 

“It’s been a while,” he mumbled, flush on his cheeks. “Don’t be too disappointed.”

Lukan huffed and released Jairus’ hand, sliding his own downwards to brush against the fabric of Jairus’ sweatpants. Jairus groaned again and guided his hand to the waistband. Lukan didn’t need much more of an invitation than that to pick up the pace. He pushed the trousers away and rolled onto his back, pulling Jairus with him. 

Their cocks pressed together through the thin material of Lukan’s underwear, and he pulled Jairus down hard against him, and mouthed at his neck, his jaw, his ear – any place he could reach. After so long it felt so damn good to be able to hold him like this. If Jairus only wanted this, if he stopped now, it would still be enough - 

“Oh fuck,” he gasped, as Jairus rolled his hips. “I never imagined-”

“Not now,” Jairus pleaded, pressing his face into Lukan’s neck, and Lukan was helpless to obey that voice. He’d do anything the man asked, and wasn’t that a terrifying thought.

Lukan rolled Jairus back onto his side and, with a glance up at Jairus’ dark eyes for permission, took his cock in his hand. Jairus was hard, and hot, and his eyes slid closed as Lukan began to massage him. Lukan forced himself to go slow, kissing Jairus behind his ear as he worked his wrist. Jairus reached out blindly and found Lukan’s underwear, pushing it down and away and then put his hand over Lukan’s.

“Together,” he muttered.

Lukan felt the heat creep up his spine as he stopped what he was doing and pressed his cock to Jairus’. He wrapped his hand around them both and set a rhythm that matched the helpless jerking of Jairus’ hips. Jairus began to kiss him again, messily, his fingers in Lukan’s hair.

The friction was so good that Lukan could feel tears gathering in his eyes. He blinked them away and put his other hand on the back of Jairus’ sweaty neck, pressing their foreheads together. Jairus groaned as Lukan’s fingers traced patterns on his skin, and then his own large hand came down to hold onto Lukan’s.

They worked their cocks together, gasping into each other’s mouths and Lukan wondered if they’d always been waiting for this. If the lifetimes they’d spent looking for another had also been missing this, the chance to be together once and for all. 

It felt like home.  
With that thought Lukan came over their hands and Jairus followed a moment later. He drew his hand away and wrapped his hands around Lukan’s hips, holding him close. Lukan kept his hand resting on their cocks and caught his breath. Jairus’ chest was heaving as though he was weeping again, but when Lukan looked up, he was smiling. He hardly looked as though he knew where he was. 

Or when. There was that possibility too.

“I love you,” Jairus blurted. “I think that I always have.”

Lukan couldn’t help it then. The dam broke and a year of anxiety and worry poured out of him. He sobbed into Jairus’ shoulder, clinging to him. It could have all ended on that bridge. Jairus could have jumped and Lukan wouldn’t have been there for him – again – and who knew when the next time they found each other would be?

“Don’t. Please don’t cry.” Jairus wiped at Lukan’s face. “Please don’t.”

“I’m just relieved,” Lukan smiled, his vision cloudy. “For you and for me. And we’re here. I wasn’t sure that we ever would be.”

Jairus hummed low in his throat and reached down to pull up the duvet that had pooled around their feet. He was shivering and Lukan could hardly blame him. The man was exhausted, and it was still before dawn. He needed to rest. 

Lukan groped behind him and switched off the lamp, shifting onto his back and opening his arms as the room was plunged once more into comforting darkness. Jairus came to him willingly this time and coiled around him so tightly that it was almost too much, apart from this was Jairus and Lukan wanted nothing more than to keep the man close. Preferably forever.

So he stroked his fingers through his hair and kissed his brow.

“Sleep, mon amour. You need to rest.”

Jairus was asleep, passed out with exhaustion, before Lukan had even finished the thought, and it was good. 

It was just how it was supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, here we are. Sorry I went MIA for a bit, but here it is - the last chapter. I've had a ball with this story, probably the longest one I've ever written, and I don't really want it to end. But thanks for all of the love and I hope it's the nice ending that our boys deserve <3

**Author's Note:**

> Beta and cheerleading by TK <3


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